


A Chance to Change

by tiredpraxian



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, a few pop culture references, i'm not pulling punches when it comes to writing azog okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-05 08:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredpraxian/pseuds/tiredpraxian
Summary: Andrea thought that Thorin Oakenshield's death was fitting, beautiful, and not at all in need of changing. The old man from the bookstore thought differently.Andrea has been dragged, kicking and screaming, into Middle Earth. She's only there to do one thing, a thing she certainly doesn't want to die doing: save the lives of Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews.





	1. Chapter 1

Andrea Chen was not a fainter. She’d probably never fainted in her entire life. Which was why she was very confused for a multitude of reasons upon waking up in a forest.

Firstly, because Andrea hadn’t actually seen a temperate forest since she was twelve. Secondly, because this was absolutely not the place she’d been when she’d fainted. All things considered, that probably should have been her first concern.

“Oh, damn.” Andrea sat up so fast her head began to spin. She covered her eyes and waited for the spinning to cease, whilst silently panicking. About what, she wasn’t exactly sure. This entire situation, probably. The fact that she was in an entirely different climate and country than the one she’d been in when she’d apparently fainted.

Was this a kidnapping? A sex-trafficking ring?

A sex-trafficking ring that dropped their people into a temperate forest. Seemed likely.

“You seem troubled, my dear.”

Andrea leapt to her feet, kicking up fallen leaves and dirt. She didn’t really notice, though, too caught up in staring at the old man standing a few meters away, just under an equally old oak tree.

“You!” It took Andrea a few moments to recognize him. The beard was longer, more unkempt, and the clothes were certainly different –grey cloaks and a pointed hat?– but the nose and those noticeably bushy eyebrows were very distinctive. “You’re that old man from the bookstore!”

The thought that she’d been kidnapped by a weird old man was almost worse than the sex-trafficking theory.

“Indeed I am.”

Andrea had two modes when it came to distress: getting riled up, or shutting down completely.

It was the latter than happened this time.

Silence fell between the two of them for several long seconds. Andrea was too busy inwardly screaming to speak. The buzz of panic between her ears almost drowned out the old man’s next words.

“I believe that I forgot to introduce myself when last we met.” He smiled a smile that might have, in any other context, been reassuring. He bowed his head and spread his hands, one of which held a long wooden staff that Andrea had somehow missed. “My name is Gandalf the Grey.”

Stunned, Andrea stared at the old, apparently senile man. Mutely, she shook her head.

“I assure you I am, young lady. And you are Andrea Chen. And this is Middle Earth. The Shire, to be more precise. Some hours’ walk out of Hobbiton.”

Another shake of the head. Andrea was either going crazy, or this man was very invested in his own delusion. Going so far as to transport her some several thousand miles while she was unconscious.

Suddenly, Andrea remembered her phone. One hand slapped to her chest, and she almost wept to feel the familiar weight of the messenger-bag strap across her chest. Shoving a hand into her bag, Andrea gripped her phone tightly and drew it out. Pressing the power button, she checked the time, and–

And it was only six in the evening, on the same day, twenty-sixth of April. The glaring No Signal at the top of the screen meant that her phone hadn't adjusted its time zone. Which meant that she'd been transported however many thousands of miles within a couple hours.

Andrea looked up at the old man. He smiled kindly at her.

“I know this may be confusing, but I may be able to explain what's going on,” he said.

Andrea’s instincts, until now torn between fight or flight, finally chose a side.

She ran.

If there was one good thing to come of this, it was that she still had all her clothes and her bag. If she’d had to run through a forest barefoot, she probably wouldn’t have gotten very far. As it was, her boots were not made for running through the forest, and she felt every single stick, root, and stone she stepped on.

Her bag bounced on her hip, and she pulled it up into her arms for want of relative silence. Leaves and fronds rustled as she ran past them, probably leaving a very obvious trail. But old men don’t run very fast, she just needed to get far enough away that she could go at a more measured pace.

With this in mind, she ran a short while more, chest heaving and legs aching.

A lot more started aching when she broke through the treeline and tripped over a root.

Swearing, Andrea rolled off her bag. Her ribs ached from having been stabbed with what was probably her keys, somewhere in the depths of her bag.

Loose hair fell about her face as she sat back on her knees, breathing cool spring air that all but froze her wheezing lungs. God, what wouldn’t she give for the humid air of a jungle instead of whatever the hell this was.

Lifting her head, Andrea met the surprised stare of another person standing on the other side of a fence. Inside the fence was a garden of flowers and vegetables, and past the garden was a very familiar sort of house with a round door, built directly into a hill.

Andrea got unsteadily to her feet, and the person’s gaze tracked her. The person was very short, little more than half Andrea’s height. Andrea had seen plenty of very short people in her lifetime –Southeast Asia was full of them, after all– but she’d never seen one so… proportional? This person looked like a full-sized human shrunk down.

Andrea’s eyes fell to the person’s bare feet, sticking out from under a pair of worn out pants. They were very hairy feet. The hairiest she’d ever seen.

“Are… are you a Hobbit?” Andrea felt the words coming out of her mouth, though she could hardly believe she’d spoken them.

The short man frowned, and Andrea almost thought he hadn’t heard her until he said, “I am. And might I ask why a Man has come barreling out of the forest like a drunkard, miss?”

Damn, oh hell, oh shit.

Andrea tore herself out of her panic. “I’m lost. I think. I got scared.” At least this short person –Hobbit?!– spoke English. Or was she speaking Westron? Was she really entertaining this delusion!?

She’d probably knocked her head when she fainted and was now in a hospital in a coma. Yes, that explained it. For the most part. Andrea had never had a dream this vivid, ever.

“Where am I?” She asked. Her voice sounded more sure than she felt.

“You’re a few hours’ walk outside Hobbiton, miss.” The short man, the Hobbit, looked her over critically. “If you’re very lost, I know a mister Baggins who has some good maps.”

“Baggins?”

On the inside, Andrea was thinking very, very fast. Almost too fast to for her to comprehend. She was outside Hobbiton, in Middle Earth, sometime during the lifetime of Bilbo Baggins, the Hobbit who found the One Ring and went on to hand it over to Frodo Baggins who threw it into Mount Doom. It was like something out of a fanfiction.

And this all had to do with that old man in the woods who’d claimed to be Gandalf. The old man she’d met at the bookstore last week, with whom she’d had a very interesting conversation about the Hobbit movies versus the book.

“Yes, Baggins.” The Hobbit gestured away to the left. “The road down to Hobbiton’s just that way, over the hill. Follow it on, I’m sure you’ll find the Baggins home easy enough. Just ask after Bag-End, that’s where he lives.”

This was definitely a coma dream.

“Thank you,” Andrea said, bowing her head more out of instinct than propriety.

The Hobbit only grunted. “Get on, then,” he said, turning his attention back to his garden.

In a daze, Andrea trekked the way the Hobbit had indicated. Sure enough, there was a dirt road over the hill. Deep ruts indicated the regular passing of wagons, and away down the road Andrea saw green hills and fields of corn, wheat, and barley.

“Ah, good, you found the road. I thought I might have to track you down in the forest somewhere.”

Andrea spun about to face the grey-cloaked old man. Gandalf. He leaned on his staff and smiled kindly.

“Is this real?” Andrea asked.

“It is very real, my dear.”

That’s exactly what a coma-dream person would say, Andrea thought. Even though no dream could ever replicate the smell of forests she hadn’t seen since she was a girl, give depth and weight to a world that she’d only seen on a screen.

Andrea looked back out to the fields, then to the woods. Her gaze landed on Gandalf. “Why am I here?” If this all really was real, which she still didn’t believe.

“Do you recall our conversation at the bookstore?” Gandalf asked.

“Most of it, I think.” Andrea fisted her hand in the fabric of her jacket. “We talked about The Hobbit movies. The end of The Battle of the Five Armies.”

“Yes. And we spoke at one point about Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf leaned forward slightly. His eyes glittered under the shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat. “About his death.”

Andrea nodded. “You were surprised I wasn’t torn up about it. I said he died a good death.” A beautiful death, even. If there was one thing that Andrea thought the movies had done well, it was the way Thorin died. “You disagreed.” Andrea pursed her lips, some of her usual spirit rising to the surface now that she’d reached a subject she was passionate about. “Which isn’t true, by the way. It was beautifully paced, and fitting to his character. Predictable, yeah, to people who read the book, but all the better for it.”

Gandalf hummed, his smile fading. “Yes, you did say that.” He pinned Andrea beneath an intense stare. “Do you believe Thorin Oakenshield deserves to die?”

“Of course not! From a writer’s standpoint, though, it–” Andrea paused. “Deserves? Do you mean he’s alive?”

“In fact, he is. I saw him not too long ago. He ought to be here tonight at Bilbo Baggins’ house.”

Andrea looked down the road that led to Hobbiton. “So this is at the start of the story, then?”

“Yes.”

A few seconds passed as Andrea absorbed that. Then she frowned, turning an accusing glare on Gandalf. “But what does this all have to do with me? Why am I here? If this is even real.”

“Because, Miss Chen, I want you to save the lives of Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first few chapters are clunky, and contain, yes, dialogue from the script. I glaze over that stuff quite often though. I've written up to chapter 14, and rest assured that by then things are diverging from the script (of the movie, at least)  
comments appreciated, and kudos too :) tell me what you think, otherwise I can't write to please


	2. Chapter 2

“No.”

Gandalf looked very surprised. His bushy brows rose up into the depths of his hat. “No? These are three pivotal lives we are speaking of, Miss Chen. Surely you don’t think they deserve to die.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. If there was one thing that brought out the fighter in her, it was passive aggression. “I didn’t say that, and you know it. If you want their lives saved, why not save them yourself? You read the book, watched the movies, you know how it ends!”

“On the contrary, my dear, I have neither read the book nor watched the movies.” Gandalf drew himself up slightly. “It is not for anyone, even one such as I, to know one’s own future. But you are not of this world, and not of what you know to be a mere story. Your presence has changed things, and will continue to do so.”

Andrea scoffed. “Great, so now I’m the butterfly flapping its wings? What if the hurricane turns out to be Frodo never throwing the Ring into the fire?”

Gandalf frowned. “Fate sees fit that all that must happen will happen. There are those who must die in some specific fashion at some specific time, and those whose lives are given to chance rather than fate. The line of Durin, I believe, lies in the latter category.”

“Why me, then? Why not some other girl.”

Gandalf shrugged. His expression gentled slightly. “I cannot say, my dear. Only that I know that it is you who must do this.”

That was a nice sentiment. Andrea didn’t let it soften her. Especially when a new thought occurred to her. “What about going home?” she asked, in a quiet voice, her ire fading at the prospect her mind presented her with. “Will I go home at the end of it? Or… stay here forever.”

“You may go home, if you want to.”

Andrea couldn’t think of a single reason why she wouldn’t. “I’ll consider it,” she said after a long time.

It seemed Gandalf knew that was the best he was going to get at the moment, because he nodded. “Very well.” He smiled at her. “It’s a walk still to Hobbiton. Would you mind coming to dinner with me? I’m familiar with the host. He’s an excellent cook.”

Through all of the stress, panic, and muddled thoughts, Andrea managed to find that statement funny. She laughed, high and a little bit hysterical.

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” she said.

And that was how she found herself walking alongside a wizard down the road to Hobbiton.

Andrea kept in step easily enough with Gandalf, though he kept a surprisingly quick pace, for all that he looked like a man well into his seventies or eighties.

He wasn’t a man though, right? Andrea had never actually delved all too deep into the lore of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth; she was actually more of a science-fiction reader than a fantasy reader. She did remember reading some unofficial novel of some sort when she was young that mentioned that Gandalf and the other wizards were sort of like angels. Maia, was it? Maiar? Agents of the higher powers who did… whatever they did.

Well, she knew the basics of Middle Earth at least. Her childhood horse-phase had run parallel to a Lord of the Rings-phase, so she knew more about that story than she did about The Hobbit. She actually hadn’t read The Hobbit in about six years, and she’d only ever watched the movies a couple times each. In fact, she’d only watched The Battle of the Five Armies movie once, in the theater. About two years ago.

That didn’t really matter, though, because Andrea didn’t actually have to remember it. Because it wasn’t her responsibility to.

That argument was wearing just a little thin as she turned it over and over in her head.

“How are you going to explain my presence to the Company? And Thorin?” Andrea asked quietly. That was one of those things that always ended up being an issue in those girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth fanfictions. The girl falls into Middle Earth, meets the Company, and is ostracised for all of three to six chapters before being romanced by either Fili, Kili, or Thorin.

Andrea contented herself with the fact that she wasn’t a girl in a fanfiction.

“When we met at Bree, I told him that I would be bringing along a companion of my own,” Gandalf said.

“How is that going to turn into my joining the Company?” Andrea turned a skeptical glare on the wizard. “What happens when you part ways?”

Gandalf paused. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said after a few moments.

Great, kidnapped by a wizard who didn’t even have a plan.

Damn, did she really believe this? That this was Middle Earth, that the man beside her was Gandalf, and that she’d been unwillingly employed to save the lives of three Dwarves who existed only in the realm of fiction?

Guess so, Andrea thought. It’s hard to keep thinking the whole thing is a delusion when it seems so very real.

She wouldn’t be giving up that coma dream theory quite yet, but for now… if this was how it was gonna be, so be it. Andrea was an adaptive sort of person. Moving countries several times during one’s childhood did that to a person.

By the time they started to walk among hill-built houses, the sun had set below the horizon. The moon was bright, however. Andrea hadn’t seen so many stars in she didn’t know how long.

Hobbiton looked almost exactly like it did in the movies. Andrea couldn’t make out what made it different. The lived-in look, maybe? The fact that there were a lot of windows lit with lamps, showing a glimpse of dinners around tables and reading around fires. It was so much more… alive.

She was so preoccupied with peering into every window they passed that she almost missed their meeting a group of Dwarves. Almost. Their arguing couldn’t have been ignored by a deaf man.

“I’m telling you, we haven’t checked that road yet!”

“And I’m sayin’ we have! Your head’s full of wool, Bofur, get out of here.”

Gandalf stepped forward and leaned on his staff. He looked very tall, compared to the Dwarves. “Lost, are we?” he said to announce himself.

All the Dwarves turned towards him. Andrea counted eight of them, and thought that she recognized one or two. Bombur was definitely the fat one, and Gloin was probably the one with the full, reddish beard, though the color was barely visible under the pale moonlight.

“Gandalf!” cried one Dwarf, echoed by the others.

Gandalf laughed the sort of laugh a grandfather would have. “Follow me, my friends. I know the way.”

The wizard set off up the hill. Andrea hurried to follow him, unwilling to get caught in the crush of Dwarves following behind.

If she remembered the movie and the book correctly, which was fairly likely, the group would show up at Bag-End and pile ungainly through the door the moment Bilbo opened it. And given that Thorin wasn’t with the group (Andrea was pretty sure she would recognize a Dwarf known for being above-average in height) she could only assume this particular event was following the canon of the movies.

Was it going to be like that the whole way? Was this story going to follow the movies? But Andrea couldn’t dismiss the idea that some parts of the book might occur, and damn she was taking this too seriously.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a voice at her shoulder. Andrea looked down at saw an earnest looking face framed by a short beard and two braids of hair.

“Yeah?” Andrea said, immediately uncomfortable.

The Dwarf smiled a bright, earnest smile that had Andrea’s stiffening shoulders relaxing a little. “Are you with Gandalf?” he asked.

Andrea nodded.

The Dwarf nodded back. “Very nice. My name’s Ori.” He extended a hand.

Andrea absolutely hated shaking hands. Still, she reached out and took Ori’s hand, suffering through the uncomfortable sensation of a stranger’s skin against her own. “Andrea Chen,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”

Ori smiled a little wider. “Likewise.”

Then Andrea was getting introductions from every which way. Thankfully she didn’t have to shake any more hands, what with the whole group still walking along the narrow Hobbiton paths.

Andrea learned all their names –or rather, recalled their names and placed them to silhouettes and moon-lit faces– in the few minutes between their meeting and arriving at a low gate. Gandalf pushed the gate open with some aplomb, gesturing the Dwarves before him.

“Smells like dinner’s already started!” Bombur said, trundling up the short path to the round door of Bag-End.

The rest of the Dwarves piled after him, quickly overtaking the rotund Dwarf. They all pressed up around the door.

“Go on!” someone said. Dori, Andrea guessed. “Ring the bell, Ori.”

Andrea stood back and watched as things went exactly as they had in the movie. Ori rang the bell, somewhat frantically due to the physical and social pressure of his peers. An irate voice filtered through the door just as it was yanked open, sending all the Dwarves tumbling down at the furry feet of a Hobbit in a quilt dressing gown.

Bilbo Baggins stared bemusedly at the Dwarves now struggling to extricate themselves from one another. He lifted that weary gaze to Gandalf as the wizard leaned down to peer through the low doorway.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said with a heavy sigh.

Then Bilbo seemed to gather himself together, stepping aside and waving a hand inwards. “Welcome to Bag-End,” he said. And then, in a quieter, more irritated tone, “Make yourselves at home.”

The Dwarves spread out through the house, quickly vanishing from Andrea’s sight. Gandalf turned to her, waving her in.

“Come, ladies first, my dear.”

Andrea scoffed, but walked up to the door anyway. She stepped over the threshold, ducking her head. Gandalf ducked in after her, stooping low to fit under the doorway. Andrea didn’t take off her shoes, despite the sound of her grandmother’s admonishments in her head– the mud and dirt on the floor was enough of a deterrent to old Nana’s voice.

Andrea could hardly move without bumping into some Dwarf with his arms laden with food from the pantry. She fought her way over to stand by a wall, arms wrapped tightly around her body.

This was why she hated parties.

Bilbo darted about, struggling to regain some form of control over his own home. Andrea watched, torn between amusement and sympathy. Someone came by with an old chair, only to be pushed back by an irate Bilbo saying something about antiques. Then he was off to wrest some other family heirloom from the hands of a callous Dwarf.

These Dwarves, Andrea decided, had absolutely no manners or sense of respect. That sort of thing had always irritated her. Even if they had thought Bilbo was a willing host, they were certainly very rude to their host. Andrea’s lip curled with disdain.

“Andrea, my dear,” Gandalf said from the dining room. “Could you come and help set the plates?”

It was like being home again, Andrea thought. She’d always hated setting things out for family gatherings.

Still, she pushed away from the wall and began to help set the plates and cutlery with as much high disdain as she could exude.

Someone put a platter of sliced ham in her hands, and Andrea fit the plate into the rapidly growing pile of food in the middle of the table, though not before stealing a slice and shoving it into her mouth. Good ham. It’d been too long since she’d had ham.

Distantly, Andrea heard Dori offering Gandalf tea, just like in the movie.

“Miss Chen,” said Ori from somewhere to the left. “Would you mind helping me fetch some mugs?”

Andrea sighed. “Sure.”

She walked past Gandalf, who stood in the hall counting names. Stepping into the kitchen, she and Ori gathered as many mugs as their hands would carry. Andrea doubted they were all required –she’d already seen a few drinks in hands– but better safe than sorry.

“We appear to be one Dwarf short,” Gandalf was saying as Andrea and Ori sidled past.

“He is late, is all,” came the low drawl of a Dwarf that Andrea had not yet been introduced to. His head was bald. She could only assume that he was Dwalin.

Then she was swept away, and didn’t hear any more of that exchange. Andrea tried to remember how it had gone as she dumped the mugs onto the table where the beer barrel had been set. Thorin had gone to meet Dain, right? Or someone. Had he gone to the Blue Mountains?

“Oh, hello. Who are you?”

Andrea looked up and met the eyes of a dark-haired, youthful looking Dwarf who was in the process of securing the barrel. On the other side of the barrel was a blonde head, which turned towards her in interest.

They looked so much alike they could only be Fili and Kili, the brothers. The other two Dwarves who would die at the end this venture.

“Andrea Chen,” said Andrea, shaking away those thoughts.

The Dwarf smiled. “Kili, at your service. That’s my brother, Fili.” He nodded to the blonde Dwarf.

“What brings you here?” asked Fili, expression polite and interested. “This is something of an invitation only dinner.” Despite his jesting words, there was something more intent in his eyes. Andrea could see why Thorin had intended to make Fili his heir.

Still intended to, she reminded herself.

“I’m with Gandalf,” she said, beginning to stack the mugs up beside the barrel.

“Really? Has he brought you in to help our quest?” Kili asked.

Fili shot his brother a warning look and spoke before Andrea could. “Where are you from? Your accent is unfamiliar.”

“Nowhere, really,” Andrea said, feeling her tongue curling into a likeness of the two Dwarves’ accents– the unshakeable instinct of a child growing up in linguistically-diverse countries. “The East, thereabouts.”

“The East?” Kili said with interest. “How far east? Are you of the Easterling folk?”

“No.” Andrea could only thank her mixed blood that she hadn’t been outright mistaken for an Easterling so far– she’d never really considered them, beyond the thought that having vaguely Middle Eastern and East Asian peoples as ‘bad guys’ was kind of iffy on Tolkien’s part.

“No Easterling’s come this far west in centuries, Kili,” Fili said in a scolding voice, casting his brother yet another warning glare. “Go and sit down, brother. Eat your dinner.”

Andrea made her escape, and found that during that short conversation the rest of the Dwarves had completely filled up the table with food and were now passing plates and platters around.

“Miss Chen,” someone said. Dori, Andrea guessed, judging by the neat grey braids. He waved her over. “I’ve saved you a seat, miss.”

Smiling thinly, Andrea sat down in the wooden chair. Chatter rang out about her, and hands kept coming in close to grab food from the plates near her. Andrea was, in short, incredibly overwhelmed. She stifled the sensation and grabbed a sausage from a nearby plate with her fingers, biting into it. The skin burst under her teeth, and god but it tasted delicious.

“Bombur, catch!” called the Dwarf at the end of the table nearer to Andrea. Bofur? He was wearing that ushanka hat, like in the movies. Then he threw something across the table that Andrea couldn’t identify. Way over on the other end of the table, Bombur caught it in his mouth.

The table erupted with shouts and laughter. Andrea laughed as well, even as her ears thrummed and her hands ached to reach up and cover them. The perks of being an introvert with anxiety, she thought, and took a vicious bite of her sausage.

Andrea stood up a bit and took a sun-dried tomato and a new slice of ham, ducking her head under the hail of food now being thrown Bombur’s way.

Then there were shoes on the table as Fili called, “Who wants an ale!”

Andrea smacked his leg, a wordless cry of indignation coming from her mouth. The Dwarf turned and looked down at her with a wide grin.

“Ale, miss?” he said. Andrea only scoffed, resolving to check all food carefully before she put something in her mouth.

Dinner was a very loud affair, but once Andrea adjusted to it, she found it wasn’t much different from family dinners. She was introduced to Dwalin and Balin at one point. Dwalin only grunted, but Balin gave her a kindly smile that was even more grandfatherly than Gandalf’s.

“So what do you do, Miss Chen?” Balin asked after swallowing his food. “Have you a husband? Or do you work your own trade.”

Andrea shook her head. “No husband for me,” she said, pursing her lips in a brief, wry smile.

“No husband? A lovely woman like you aught to have been snatched up by now!” Dori declared passionately, with the air of an indignant uncle.

Andrea shook her head again. “I just don’t have the personality for it, I guess.” Not to say Andrea didn’t fairly often fantasize about having a handsome husband to open jars for her. She just wished she could skip the dating and getting-to-know-one-another part.

Bofur leaned in to say, around a mouthful of masticated meat, “Well, no woman needs a husband to make her trade. There’s plenty of Dwarven women who go without husbands until they’re quite settled.”

Gloin and Bombur nodded sagely, and murmurs of agreement went around the table.

“So what trade do you work, then?” Ori asked earnestly.

Andrea grimaced, and considered how much of herself she was going to have to give out to these people. “I’m between jobs right now, but I’m something of a jack-of-all-trades for the arts. I draw and write best, though.”

A wave of amiable murmurs swept the table. “Good, good.” “Very nice, quite agreeable.”

“Maybe you can help Ori keep record, then,” said Kili.

“What sort of writing?” Fili said over his brother. “Scribing?”

“Fiction. I tell stories.” Not very well, though. She had yet to even finish a book, let alone get published.

“Stories!” declared the Dwarves with some excitement. And then the conversation devolved into discussion of Dwarvish tales, leaving Andrea forgotten. She much preferred it that way.

By the time dinner wrapped up, Andrea felt quite fat. She hadn’t eaten so much in one sitting for weeks, perhaps even months.

Everyone started to go off for their own thing, perhaps to the toilet or to find more of poor Bilbo’s things to examine. Andrea reached out and caught Balin’s sleeve as he passed.

“There’s someone else still coming, isn’t there?” she asked. “We should save him a plate.”

The white-bearded Dwarf nodded. “Indeed so, miss. Why don’t you get one together for him? We’ll count that as your clean-up duties,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

Getting a plate together was easy. Andrea pulled a fairly clean, large plate from the table and began to load it up with food. Sausages, ham, assorted meats, some bread rolls, and a good amount of vegetables. Even Dwarves had to eat their vegetables, Andrea thought as she walked over to a dumbstruck looking Bilbo.

“Excuse me,” Andrea said, bending a little to catch the Hobbit’s attention. He looked up at her, startled. Andrea held up the plate. “Could I store this in the pantry for a bit? There’s another guest coming, wouldn’t want him to go hungry.”

Bilbo shook himself visibly. He seemed to die a little inside at the mention of yet another guest. “Yes, of course.”

Andrea snagged some cutlery from the table and stored the plate in the empty pantry. This probably wasn’t where people stored food like this, although maybe they did? They didn’t exactly have refrigerators.

Brushing her hands on her jeans, Andrea stepped out into the hall and heard Ori say, “Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?”

Interest piqued by memory, Andrea looked over and saw Fili take the plate from Ori’s hands while Bilbo and Gandalf looked on with bemusement and amusement respectively.

“There you go, Ori, give it to me,” said Fili, who promptly threw it past Gandalf. Kili caught it and slung the plate back into the kitchen. Bilbo made a sound of concern as another plate was thrown Kili’s way, and the Dwarf repeated the maneuver.

Andrea smiled, stepping back against the wall. Someone threw a pretty blue and gold plate at Fili, who threw it to Kili, who threw it to someone in the kitchen.

“Excuse me!” Bilbo cried indignantly. “That’s my mother’s Westfarthing pottery, it’s over a hundred years old!”

Fili and Kili didn’t care, clearly, nor did the rest of the Dwarves. From the dining room, Andrea heard the horrible sound of metal against metal. She looked around the doorway to see the Dwarves around the dining table striking knives and forks together and stomping their feet under the table.

“Can you not do that,” Bilbo exclaimed, leaning into the dining room. “You’ll blunt them!”

“Ooh, do you hear that, lads?” Bofur said wryly. “He said we’ll blunt the knives!”

And then they began singing.

“Blunt the knives, bend the forks!  
“Smash the bottles and burn the corks!  
“Chip the glasses and crack the plates!  
“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

Andrea couldn’t help but laugh as dishes and cutlery flew about, tossed and flung by expert hands as they continued to sing. Bilbo darted around frantically, but no disaster occurred, and they certainly did none of the dreadful things they were singing about doing.

It really was an art to sing three verses of an improvised song in tune and in harmony. Andrea went from room to room, smiling wider than she had in a long time, watching the proceedings. The Dwarves cleaned the plates, with Bombur consuming leftovers. They juggled and tossed the pots and pans about, scrubbing them thoroughly.

“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!  
“So carefully, carefully, with the plates.”

In no time at all, everything was clean and stacked in the kitchen. Gandalf laughed, pipe in hand and smoke around his head, spreading his hands to display the completely intact kitchenware to a haggard looking Bilbo.

Andrea couldn’t help it; she clapped. A few Dwarves bowed to her, said, “Thank you very much.” and “It was a pleasure to perform, miss.”

Everything was bright, warm, and yellow. Andrea had quite forgotten that she didn’t want to be here in the first place.

Then three solid thumps sounded against the door.

The laughter quieted as all heads turned to the hallway. Andrea’s spirits plummeted instantly. Her hands, raised for clapping, wrapped about one another nervously.

“He’s here,” said Gandalf.

Though she didn’t say it out loud, Andrea felt the sentiment deep in her heart: fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was definitely one of my most favourite chapters to write. So light-hearted. So free.  
comments and kudos! thanks for reading :D


	3. Chapter 3

Gandalf got up from his chair and walked over to the front door. Andrea followed him, hovering by the wall. Bilbo followed as well (rather more indignant at the prospect of a new guest) and all the rest of the Dwarves, looking out into the foyer with great interest.

Taking hold of the knob in the very center of Bilbo’s lovely round door, Gandalf opened the door to reveal a dark-haired Dwarf who looked nothing like Richard Armitage. But then, none of the Dwarves had looked like their actor counterparts thus far.

“Gandalf,” said the Dwarf who could only be Thorin Oakenshield. He stepped over the threshold with all the pomp of a person who knew that he was incredibly important, eyes glittering with something like wry pride. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find,” he continued, looking over the faces of his Dwarves watching him from the hall. “I got lost, twice.”

He began to remove his cloak, saying, “I wouldn’t have found it at all if not for that mark on the door.” He folded the cloak over his arm and set it aside, revealing beneath it an impressive garment lined with furs that Andrea couldn’t help but admire.

“Mark?” Bilbo exclaimed, marching over to the door. “There’s no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!”

Gandalf hurried to shut the door before Bilbo could see his ruined door. “There is a mark,” the wizard said swiftly. “I put it there myself.” He clasped his hands and quickly changed the subject. “Bilbo Baggins, may I introduce you to the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Andrea looked nervously to Gandalf as Thorin stepped forward to assess the poor Hobbit. But Gandalf only smiled and shook his head, as if to say that her introduction would come later. Judging by how Thorin was treating Bilbo, Andrea knew such an introduction would come too soon.

“I thought as much,” Thorin said upon hearing that Bilbo’s combat skills extended to little more than fisticuffs and some expertise at ‘conkers’ (Andrea had never found what exactly conkers was). “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The rest of the Dwarves chuckled.

Then Thorin’s eyes fell on Andrea, tucked into the corner.

“Is this your companion, Gandalf? You did not tell me your companion was a woman as well as a Man.” Thorin turned to Andrea and, to her complete surprise, bowed just so. “Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, saying nothing of service as his nephews had– but then, he wasn’t the sort to be in the service of anyone.

Andrea affected a stilted bow. “Andrea Chen,” she said, a half-formed ‘my lord’ on the tip of her tongue.

Thorin was already speaking again. “Perhaps you may tell me what brings you into the companionship of a wizard, Miss Chen.” His voice was low and baritone, perfect for singing, Andrea thought. The look in his eyes belied his courteous words, however; a far more matured version of the calculating wariness Andrea had seen earlier in Fili.

Andrea didn’t know what to say. She looked to Gandalf. Was she supposed to lie? Or tell the truth? Andrea knew her lying skills to be fairly good, but lying about something so profound as ‘I’m here to join your Quest and save your life’ likely wouldn’t go over well.

“Perhaps we may speak further once you have eaten,” Gandalf said diplomatically. “You must be weary, Thorin. Some food, and tell us how your journey went.”

Thorin grunted and nodded, turning down the hall. His Company split before him like a sea.

Andrea darted off to the pantry, taking the plate she’d left there not long ago. Her tread was quiet on the well-worn wood of Bilbo Baggins’s home as she made her way over to the dining room.

Thorin was sat at the head of the table, his Dwarves seated elsewhere either at the table or around the room. They all had Bilbo’s wooden beer mugs in their hands, drinking more sedately than they had during the raucous dinner earlier, and more than a few had pipes in their hands. Andrea set the plate before Thorin, placing the cutlery with a few small clinks that sounded far too loud in the expectant quiet of the room.

“Thank you,” Thorin rumbled, taking up the knife and fork and setting about eating his dinner with as much grace as a king ought to have.

Andrea only nodded mutely in reply, fading back against the wall; Thorin’s gaze was a heavy one, and his presence heavier still. It was a little too much for Andrea’s anxious habits. What adjustments she’d made to the company of Dwarves were gone now, leaving her in an unsure, introverted silence.

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?” Balin asked, watching his leader eat. “Did they all come?”

“Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms,” Thorin said after a moment of chewing and swallowing. No Dwarf with such an upbringing as Thorin would speak with his mouth full, Andrea thought.

The table was swept with satisfied “Ahh”s and “Very good”s.

“And what do the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say?” Dwalin asked. “Is Dain with us?”

Thorin frowned, looking about the table solemnly. “They will not come,” he said at last. Sighs and murmurs filled the air until the Dwarf king spoke again. “They say this quest is ours, and ours alone.”

“You’re going on a quest?” Bilbo said quizzically.

The Hobbit’s question broke the spell of silent disappointment. Gandalf said, pulling something from his sleeve, “Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light.”

Gandalf had a small space cleared on the table before Thorin. “Far to the east,” the wizard said. “Over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.” He laid out a folded piece of paper that soon revealed itself to be a map.

Andrea crept from her corner, stepping as close to Thorin as she dared in order to see the map. Her eyes ached with the effort of seeing without proper light, but once Bilbo’s candle drew near, she could read the aged ink quite well.

“The Lonely Mountain,” she whispered under Bilbo’s more hesitant reading.

Thorin’s head turned towards her sharply, his gaze flicking up to her face. Andrea flinched back. The Dwarf’s attention turned back to the map within moments, leaving Andrea’s heart beating a tad too fast.

“Aye,” grumbled Gloin. “Oin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time!”

Oin nodded firmly. “Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it as foretold! ‘When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end’.”

The beast. The dragon. Somehow, Andrea had managed to completely forget about Smaug. And there was more than just the dragon between the Company and their Mountain. Goblins, elves, even orcs if this played like the movies. Was Andrea expected to make it all the way through that and save Thorin and his nephews’ lives? Hell no.

“What beast?” said Bilbo from the doorway.

“That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible,” Bofur said casually. He went on to describe the dragon in creative detail, to the discomfort of literally everyone in the room.

“Yes, I know what a dragon is,” Bilbo said, interrupting Bofur.

Ori leapt to his feet, cried something about Dwarvish swords and anuses, before his brother dragged him back into his chair. Balin said something about the futility of their mission, given the sound idiocy of current company. Indignant exclamations rang out, but Andrea wasn’t listening. She was too busy panicking.

She was a woman. A female. A person with girly bits. And their path would take them, most assuredly, into the way of goblins. Would she survive that? Would they simply torture her or… do something worse. Everyone got out alive in the stories, but unscathed? That was something certainly left up to chance, moreso with Andrea’s butterfly wings flapping and changing things. Her heart beat a rabbit’s rhythm. She felt a little light-headed.

Then someone shouted something in a language Andrea didn’t recognize, startling her from her panic. It was Thorin, having gotten to his feet to quell the uproar that had risen up. What had happened? Andrea tried to remember what the others had been saying, and found her mind was blank.

“If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?” the Dwarven king said, exuding such presence that Andrea took a few steps back into the shadows. Thorin’s words had cast a spell of solemn silence over the table.

Andrea didn’t want to be here anymore. The warm light of the candles seemed too bright, and Thorin’s voice seemed too loud. Andrea recognized the symptoms of a panic attack when she felt them.

She slipped from the room, blood rushing in her ears and drowning out whatever Thorin’s next words were.

Bag-End held a great many rooms, Andrea knew distantly. She found herself in one of them, curled in the dark and pressed against the cool wood of what felt like a dresser or desk. Her breaths were shaky. She felt tears on her face.

The darkness embraced her like a blanket. She couldn’t hear much more than her own heavy breathing and the conversations down the hall, reduced to a mere murmur.

Goblins and elves and orcs and Azog the Defiler, who most certainly did not get that title from defiling alters and holy places. Andrea wouldn’t be able to handle it if… if anything that bad happened. And nothing, not even the lives of three people, was worth the risk of that happening.

It took Andrea a while to ground herself– breathing in deep and trying to identify the smells, listening hard and identifying noises. By the time her panic attack was over, Andrea felt wrung out. She needed sleep, badly. And more than that, she needed away from all these people.

Andrea wasn’t sure how long she was in that little room, clinging to herself and taking comfort in the shadows. By the time she uncoiled and crept back, scrubbing at her eyes to make sure no trace of her weakness remained, she estimated it had been about fifteen minutes.

Had they finished their round-table discussion already? Had the key been presented to Thorin, the contract to Bilbo? The house was quiet. Andrea tried to remember how things had gone in the movies, because hell if her memory of the book would help her here. A child’s story she hadn’t read in years, a few movies she’d only watched a few times each. Could she really do this?

Up ahead, Andrea heard low voices. She stepped nearer to the wall and quieted her steps. After a few moments, she was near enough to recognize them. A few moments more, and she could make out words.

“-to my father, this has come to me,” came the low rumble of Thorin’s voice. “They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland.”

Andrea looked around the corner and saw Thorin, holding the key to the mountainside door. Balin stood before him, a sad, solemn air about him.

“There is no choice, Balin,” Thorin said softly. His eyes shone in the low light of the candles, agony writ across his face. “Not for me.”

Balin sighed, long and slow. “Then we are with you, laddie,” the old Dwarf said. “We will see it done.”

Silence fell between them. Andrea took a step forward, rounding the corner. The two Dwarves looked at her. Balin looked sad. Thorin looked guarded.

“Miss Chen,” Thorin said. “Perhaps it is time you explain your presence here.”

Andrea wondered what she looked like to them– a scared woman just coming back from weeping out her terror in a darkened room. Creeping back like a thief in the night.

“That’s a better question for Gandalf,” Andrea said in a voice little more than a whisper.

Thorin shook his head. “No more of the wizard. He has already presented me with a burglar who faints at the thought of death. Why has he brought you here, into my council? Why do you stand in on matters that do not involve you?”

Andrea took a breath, cold against her aching lungs. “I’m not sure how to answer you.”

“Truthfully.” Thorin took a step towards her, anger knitting his brow. “Answer me truthfully, woman.”

“There is no reason to be rude, Master Thorin.” Gandalf drew the attention of all three of them. He braced his hand against the rafters, leaning over them. “I have brought Miss Chen to join your quest.”

Thorin looked at Gandalf. Andrea couldn’t see his face, until his gaze turned on her. He looked so monumentally furious that her heart skipped a beat.

“I will not ask what you think she could possibly bring to my Company, Gandalf, because it does not matter.” Thorin’s lip curled, and his face turned to the wizard. “I will not bring a woman on this quest.”

Gandalf frowned. “Miss Chen has a great deal to offer, Thorin Oakenshield, more than you kno–”

“I do not care what she has to offer.” Thorin took a step towards Gandalf, his hands in fists at his sides, his back to Andrea. “It is a treacherous road to the Lonely Mountain, wizard. If we are somehow taken, who is the first that our captors will look to? Who will suffer at their hands? It is bad enough you attempted to saddle me with a Hobbit who cannot fight, but a woman?” Thorin looked over his shoulder. His eyes met Andrea’s. She saw something in them besides anger, but no less dark. “You may be willing to risk her life and body, Gandalf, but I am not.”

“It is her own choice to make,” Gandalf said firmly.

Balin spoke up. “Then perhaps we ought to let her make it.” He turned a kindly look on Andrea. She wished she had enough courage to ask for a hug from the old Dwarf– some modicum of grandfatherly comfort.

All three of them were looking at her. Andrea took a shuddering breath and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ll journey with you a time. I don’t have a choice about that.” But she would take her leave when they reached Rivendell. She didn’t want to go any farther than that.

“I cannot control where you walk, eat, and sleep, woman,” Thorin said, turning fully to Andrea. “If you ride beside us and camp with us, so be it. But I will not be held responsible should a darker fate befall you.”

“I understand.” Her voice came out as barely more than a wordless exhalation.

Thorin turned and stomped away. Gandalf only sighed and left, muttering under his breath.

A hand touched Andrea’s elbow. She flinched away from it, turning her head quickly to Balin. He smiled at her, small, mournful, and reassuring.

“You’ve courage, lass,” he said. “I can see it in you.”

Andrea had no more courage than a mouse. But she smiled anyway in thanks. Balin nodded to her and walked away.

Andrea found herself a place in a nearby sitting room just off the main hall. She blew out the candles lit there and dragged an armchair into the corner. Hugging her bag (which she had retrieved from the chair she’d left it on in the kitchen) Andrea curled up on the soft cushions. Moonlight and starlight filtered through the window not far away.

She thought about things. About this, about that. About the task Gandalf had given her that she didn’t even want. About poor Bilbo with all these unwanted guests. About Thorin and his sad, dark eyes.

Their voices wove through the dark to her. Voices in harmony, low and mournful. She didn’t turn her head to it, but stared out the window at the rolling hills and trees of the Shire, at the unfamiliar stars of Middle Earth.

“Far over the misty mountains cold,  
“To dungeons deep and caverns old.  
“We must away, ere break of day,  
“To find our long forgotten gold.”

She heard Thorin’s voice in the melody. She’d been right; he was a good singer. The voices of Thorin and Company twined through the night. They sang of deep places, golden hoards, and the craft of Dwarves. Their song rang through Andrea’s soul, pulling something out from deep inside her. It felt a little like fear, a little like love, a little like mourning. It resounded within her as they sang of fire and smoke. Tears filled her eyes as their pain flowed through her very soul.

Their voices swept her away into terrifying dreams, soothed only by a single, lonely voice.

“Far over the misty mountains grim,  
“To dungeons deep and caverns dim.  
“We must away, ere break of day,  
“To win our harps and gold from him!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my reviewers on ffnet said that the panic attack was a bit much. Andrea's going through a rather difficult time, though. You can't really fault her for it.  
Comments welcomed! asked for! please! I promise i'll reply


	4. Chapter 4

A hand took hold of Andrea’s shoulder and shook it gently. She jerked awake, her mind ablaze with dreams already fading from memory.

“Come, Miss Chen,” said Gandalf, looming over her. “It is time to depart.”

Andrea uncurled from the armchair and groaned. Her body protested all movement, and her bowels ached to be emptied. She obliged them at one of the bathrooms, grimacing all the while.

The house was filled with the cool quiet of morning, watery sunlight spilling on the floor. Andrea heard quiet voices and the light clinks of metal and equipment. Shivering, she pulled her jacket close and followed Gandalf out the door.

There, standing on the road, was a group of ponies and a single horse. Andrea blinked at the myriad of nickering beasts, looking quizzically at Gandalf.

“You seemed in need of rest, my dear,” the wizard said, striding down Bilbo Baggins’s lovely garden path and out onto the road, staff in hand. “I took the liberty of retrieving our mounts with Gloin and Bofur.”

The Dwarves milled about on the road, strapping bags and things to the ponies. Andrea kept close to Gandalf’s heels, avoiding the gazes of the Dwarves. It was difficult, though, and Ori managed to flash her a smile. Andrea smiled back weakly.

Gandalf stood by the large grey horse, holding its bridle in one hand and the halter of a pony in the other. “There you are,” he said, holding out the rough rope of the pony’s halter. “I trust you know how to ride a pony.”

Andrea did not, in fact. She’d ridden a horse all of once when she was a child, and had been mostly terrified throughout the whole experience. Squaring her shoulders, Andrea took the halter from Gandalf’s hand, turning her gaze on the pony.

It was a hairy thing, a plain brown, stocky and sturdy. It looked at her with large, docile eyes, very different from the wild, semi-predatory stare of a horse. Andrea sighed heavily, holding out a hand palm up. The pony snuffled her hand and grumbled.

“A sugar cube goes a long way,” said a voice from Andrea’s shoulder. She didn’t jump, but she did look sharply at the speaker. Kili smiled lopsidedly, holding up a small leather bag. “Give him one of these.”

Dipping her fingers into the bag, Andrea drew out a sugar cube. Hesitantly, she presented it flat on her palm to the pony, which had the largest mouth to ever be in such close proximity to her fingers. The pony made a nickering sound and took the sugar cube with surprising delicacy, crunching the treat between its teeth.

The company of animals, Andrea thought, is far easier than the company of people. She pet the pony’s head, unsure whether she ought to pet it as she would a dog. It didn’t seem to care, so she rubbed its jaw and ears, examining the halter with her fingers. Her gaze flicked down its flank to the saddle, and the bags strapped there.

“Who’re those for?” Andrea asked, nodding to the bags.

“For you, Miss Chen,” said Gandalf. “I took the liberty of getting you the necessities.”

Oh. “Thank you.” Andrea couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice; Gandalf hadn’t been the most considerate of people thus far.

Andrea stepped over to the pony’s side and opened the bags with one hand, the other still holding the pony’s rope. There wasn’t much to be found– a rolled up thing that might be a bedroll or a cloak, and a set of clothing that probably wouldn’t fit well but at least had trousers. The other bag held dried food, some twine, and a small knife. The barest of necessities, though Andrea doubted she would be able to use anything else that might be found in a real adventurer’s pack– she didn’t even know how to start a fire.

“Let’s go,” said a loud voice. Andrea glanced towards it and saw Thorin, sitting astride a pony of his own. The other Dwarves began to mount their ponies.

Thorin looked over his Company. His gaze fell on Andrea for a moment before he looked away, turning his mount around and nudging it into a walk.

“Do you need help?” Kili asked, gesturing to the pony.

She probably did, but Andrea’s pride balked at the thought. “No, thank you,” she said, turning to her pony. It stood still and quiet as she set her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up onto the saddle successfully. It probably helped that a pony was a good deal shorter than a horse.

Kili had gone back to his own pony, leaping onto its back with more grace than Andrea. He pulled it about, flashing a smile. “Come on,” he said.

Andrea had little idea how to tell a horse to stop and go, beyond those extremely faded childhood memories. After a moment’s consideration, she squeezed the pony’s flanks slightly with her knees. It began to walk obligingly.

The train of ponies made its way up the hill and along to the road leading from Hobbiton. It was not the one Andrea had taken coming in with Gandalf, but it was just as green and well-worn.

Andrea found herself and her pony somewhere in the middle of the train, when she had certainly been at the end of it when the journey began. She couldn’t find it in her to complain, though, as Kili, Ori, and Fili made friendly conversation. She almost managed to forget that there was a living, moving creature beneath her, which could simply bolt off if it had the mind to.

“Do you think Mister Baggins will come?” Kili said to no one in particular.

“Of course he will,” said Ori earnestly. “How could anyone refuse a quest like ours?”

“He won’t,” said Dwalin, quite loudly. “Hobbits hide in their holes like rabbits. This one is no different. You saw how he fainted.” The Dwarf snorted derisively.

Dori spoke up. “I think he might. He seemed very interested.”

“Are you willing to bet?” Dwalin challenged.

Dori squared his shoulders. “In fact, I am! Three silvers that the Hobbit joins us.”

Then the air was full of voices, numbers, and declarations. Up at the front of the train, Thorin remained silent. Gandalf said, quite confidently, that Bilbo would be coming along. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur said otherwise.

Kili and Fili disagreed on it vehemently, with Fili deciding that Bilbo would not be joining them, and Kili declaring otherwise simply to be contrary to his brother. Oin and Nori said that Bilbo wouldn’t be coming any time soon, while Gloin said loudly that he didn’t care either way. Balin could be seen murmuring quietly with Gandalf.

“And you, Miss Chen?” Fili said, turning to Andrea as though she could solve the dispute between the brothers. “What is your take? Will the Hobbit join us?”

Andrea couldn’t help but smile at the two of them, each demanding silently that she agree with them. “He will come,” she said– the most confident she’d sounded since she woke up on the forest floor yesterday evening. “He’s got the soul of an adventurer.”

Fili scoffed. “Soul, perhaps, but not the temperament.”

“So what’s the betting pool?” Bofur said. “Five for the Hobbit, seven against, and three undecided. The numbers?” People called out their bets, and Bofur noted them down with charcoal on a piece of smudged paper he’d pulled from god knows where. Andrea said nothing; the paper bills in her wallet were less than worthless here.

Andrea took in a lungful of cold spring air. It smelled of water and bright greenery, dirt and dew. Nothing like the dark green humidity of the jungle climates Andrea knew. She found she missed the perpetual smell of rain and petrichor.

Glancing aside, Andrea looked over the road and the forest around them. The world felt so still, and yet, so alive. She heard no cars, no traffic, no humming engines. Only birds, and the ponies, and the idle conversation of the Dwarves.

It was nice.

“Wait! Wait!”

The pony train came to a halt. Andrea pulled gently but insistently on her pony’s lead, and it obliged to stop walking. Looking back, Andrea beheld a harried looking Bilbo Baggins, running down the road with a pack on his back and a set of papers flapping in his hand.

He caught up to the head of the train, passing Andrea and coming to a halt beside Balin’s pony. “I signed it,” he panted, handing the papers to the white-bearded Dwarf.

Balin hummed, taking out a pair of spectacles. He examined the bottom of the paper for a short time. At last, he said, “Everything seems to be in order.” He folded the contract and put it away, turning a benevolent look on Bilbo. “Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

The Company hummed and chuckled in satisfaction. Bilbo smiled nervously. Up ahead, Thorin turned his pony back around and set off once more.

“Give him a pony,” the Dwarf king ordered.

The Dwarven princes were quick to sweep the Hobbit up onto the back of a pony, despite Bilbo’s protests. Andrea set her pony going again with a gentle nudge. After a few moments, she dared to let it quicken its pace to ride beside Bilbo’s own dun pony. Thankfully, her pony was either well-trained or simply very well-tempered because it quickened when she nudged it and slowed when she pulled at it.

“Well done, Mister Baggins,” said Andrea, once she’d recovered from her little venture into the unknown of pony-riding. She offered the Hobbit a small smile.

Bilbo looked at her with some surprise. “Oh, thank you! Ah…” he seemed to grasp for words.

“Andrea Chen,” she said, upon remembering that she’d never properly introduced herself to Bilbo, which was a horrible mistake on her part given that Bilbo was the most polite individual she’d met in a very long time.

“How have you been caught up in all this, miss?” Bilbo asked. “I’m not sure an adventure with dragons is suited for a lady.”

Andrea glanced at Thorin’s back. “I’m not sure, Mister Baggins,” she said quietly. “But I do know that a dragon should be the least of our worries.”

They set up camp sometime in the evening after at least nine hours of riding. Andrea was sure that her thighs would never close properly again. She didn’t begrudge the pony for it, though.

Andrea bent and contorted herself until she’d cracked every tendon she could manage. Feeling somewhat better, she pulled out the small bag of coins thrown her way that morning. “Your share of the winner’s pot,” Bofur had said without malice.

Sighing heavily, Andrea pushed the money down into the depths of her messenger bag, to be ignored until she found out how Middle-Earth’s money system worked.

That first night in the wild was an unpleasant one. At the very least, Andrea was able to get herself set up with the help of Ori and Kili, who were also helping an uncertain Bilbo. The rolled-up thing turned out to be a bedroll, and with Ori’s help Andrea found the best place to put it with the least amount of rocks and roots.

It wasn’t as bad as that time she’d spent three days sleeping on a hardwood floor in a sleeping bag– at least dirt had a little yield to it. Andrea fell asleep instantly.

The next several days were much the same; waking up when the sun rose and making camp just before the sun set. Thorin kept their party at a reasonable pace, and they crossed the lands quickly. The hills and forests of the Shire gave way to lands less green and more yellow, but somehow no less beautiful.

They made camp around a large tree that Andrea managed to recognize as an oak. It was the biggest tree around– one of the only ones, in fact. They were beginning to leave the rolling woods of the Shire and its surroundings, exchanged for the rockier lands between Rivendell and Bree.

Andrea found herself a place at the edge of the camp, laying out her bedroll and putting her things on top of it. Then she helped Gloin and Oin get things together for a fire– pretty much the only thing she had to contribute to the company was gathering tinder and wood. She'd been learning how to start a fire from Gloin though, and had graduated from ‘hopelessly bad’ to ‘might be able to do it with a gun to her head’.

Bombur began to make dinner, with the help of Bilbo. They talked about cooking techniques and other food-ish things while throwing the rabbits that the others had caught into a big pot. Andrea sat near enough to the fire to feel its warmth, perusing the contents of her messenger bag.

The past few days had been too emotionally and psychologically tiring for Andrea to be in need of entertainment. Now, almost a week into this venture, she found herself finally adjusting to it. Perhaps it was the exceedingly reliable schedule that they had– Andrea lived best with a daily rhythm.

There wasn’t much to be found inside her bag, really: a bunch of pens, a thick B5 notebook, and an A4 sketchbook; her phone and charger, earphones, and wallet; assorted junk like old receipts and hairpins; that pouch of money that she still hadn't opened; a ragged copy of I, Robot, and…

Andrea glared at the little pouch holding her menstrual cup, as well as the multitude of emergency pads stuffed into a pocket of her bag. How long would it take to get to Erebor? Certainly more than a few months, despite how much the movies had glossed over the actual journey. Which meant she’d have to deal with the blood flows multiple times.

Shoving the pouch into the depths of her bag, Andrea put it out of her mind to deal with when the time came. Instead, she took up I, Robot. She flipped it open to a random page and drank in the technical terms that popped out at her– processing, positronic brain, artificial intelligence.

Why couldn’t she have been dropped into the world of Isaac Asimov’s interlocked series?

“What’s that?” Kili asked as he dropped down onto the ground beside Andrea.

“A book,” Andrea replied laconically. Her reply drew interest, however. Ori and Fili flocked over to examine the paperback in her hands.

“That’s the smallest book I’ve ever seen!” Ori exclaimed. He held out a hand. “May I see it?”

Andrea gave it to the young Dwarf slowly, reluctant to part with the only piece of her world’s culture she now possessed. Reading those few pages had left her struck with homesickness, putting a heavy pit in her belly.

“This is incredible,” Ori said passionately. “The binding technique is familiar, but the script! It’s so small and uniform! I’ve never seen writing like this.” He looked up at Andrea. “Did you write this?”

That startled a laugh from Andrea. “Me? No, no, not me. But one of my favorite authors did. He wrote a lot of stories– fiction, not history.” Did the people of Middle Earth write down anything except their history? Andrea wasn’t sure.

They spent some time talking about the book. Andrea did her best to explain what robots were, though she doubted she did them justice. The three Dwarves that made up her audience didn’t appear to understand much of what she was saying, but they seemed to enjoy it anyway.

Somehow, talk of robots turned into talk of Star Wars. Before she knew it, Andrea found herself regaling the tale of Star Wars: A New Hope to almost all the Dwarves of the Company, as well as a quiet Bilbo.

“Food’s done!” Bombur declared.

Andrea stopped speaking mid-sentence, looking over in surprise. The sun was lower to the horizon, the sky beginning to deepen from orange to purple. “I suppose I’ll finish the story tomorrow,” she said, smiling hesitantly.

The group rose as one and flocked to the fire, accepting bowls with grunts and thanks. Andrea waited for the crush to recede before she stepped closer. Bombur handed her a bowl filled with warm rabbit soup. Andrea bowed her head in thanks.

When she began to step away, Balin stopped her and gave her another bowl. “Could you give this to him?” he asked, nodding to the solitary figure sitting on a boulder some meters away.

Andrea frowned. “Will he take it from me?”

“Of course he will, lass,” Balin replied. “He is not so proud as to refuse good food.” There was a wry twinkle in his eye that only made Andrea frown more.

Still, she picked her way through the leaves and roots of the oak tree to Thorin’s boulder. He didn’t look at her until she was standing right in front of him, holding out the bowl of soup.

“For you, Master Dwarf,” she said quietly.

Thorin took the bowl from her carefully. “Thank you,” he muttered. Andrea found herself struck suddenly with the image of Eowyn giving Aragorn a bowl of soup she’d made herself. Andrea smiled at the memory of Aragorn subtly trying to throw it away.

“What do you smile at, Miss Chen?” Thorin asked, swallowing a mouthful of soup.

Andrea took that as an invitation to sit down on the boulder beside him, with a good amount of distance between them. “Just more stories.” She brought her spoon to her mouth and hummed quietly. It was very good; Bombur and Bilbo’s skills combined nicely.

Silence fell between them for a time. Then, “I wish to apologize, Miss Chen.” Thorin turned his face slightly to Andrea. It was hidden in shadow. She could only see his silhouette. “My conduct some days ago at the burglar’s house was rude.”

“But not uncalled for.” He was right to refuse her, Andrea thought. She had nothing to offer– she was only a liability.

They said nothing more to one another, and ate in silence.

Andrea wondered whether Thorin would die pierced by many spears, with his nephews fallen to save him, or alone at the hand of Azog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet! another one :D I'll probably post these practically daily until I catch up with the one's I've already written


	5. Chapter 5

Andrea ended up finishing the tale of Star Wars: A New Hope the next day, much to the protest of her dry throat. The Company enjoyed it, however. Balin found it in him to tell a tale of his own– one that the rest of the Company had heard before, but Bilbo and Andrea had not.

So did the day pass, with little pause in the steady pace of the ponies. Around late afternoon, however, they came upon a river that was, in reality, little more than a wide stream.

“Perhaps we should halt here, Thorin,” Gandalf called. “Let your Company rest, and wash themselves. It’s been some time since we saw waters great enough to bathe in.”

Thorin grumbled but dismounted. “Dori, Bofur, secure the ponies.” He looked up at the sky. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

Andrea slid off her pony. Her thighs and glutes ached, but not as much as they had when she’d first started riding. Maybe her body was finally getting used to it.

She untacked her pony and let it over to Bofur. Andrea dropped her bags at the base of a tree and squatted on her heels, digging through the bags. She pulled out the bundle of extra clothing Gandalf had gotten her, which she had yet to use.

A week without washing was a week too long. Andrea felt greasy and gross, though not as much as she would if the air were more humid. Thank god for small miracles and temperate spring climates.

Andrea tucked the clothes under her arm and set off upstream. She could already hear splashing from the river, and resolutely didn’t look back.

There was a very nice spot upstream with dry rocks breaching the surface of the water. Andrea settled there, putting her change of clothes on the shore and stripping out of her old ones, shivering when her skin met the air. Her garments smelled… disgusting, to say the least. Andrea took her dirty clothes in hand and stepped into the water.

She took her foot back immediately with a few choice swear words. If the brisk spring breeze had her hairs standing on end, the water was certainly worse.

Still, she braved it, steadily moving deeper into the water. Once she adjusted to the temperature, it almost felt pleasant. Squatting down in the shallows, Andrea scrubbed her clothes against one another in the hopes of cleaning them. There was no soap to be found, not that she knew of at least, so this would have to do.

Her bra, pants, and socks were sorry things that Andrea balked at touching. Once her poor attempts at laundry were over, Andrea tucked her clothing and underwear under a rock in the shallows by the shore. Hopefully that would let them soak for a time without being swept away by the current.

She waded out until the water reached her knees– she didn’t have to go very far. Sitting down on a submerged rock, Andrea ducked her head under the water and came up gasping; it felt even colder on her face. Hunching over, Andrea began to wash her hair. It would be easier to lean back, but the thought of exposing her naked front to the sky made her shrink.

Her hair wasn’t very tangled, but it was exceedingly oily. Andrea had taken the liberty of divesting Kili of a leather strip a few days ago, which she’d been using thus far to keep her hair in a braid after her hairtie broke. The strip lay with her fresh clothing, and her scalp thanked her for the fresh air.

She scraped her nails along her scalp and hoped that she was doing something right. It certainly felt a little better, even though she didn’t have shampoo.

The bed of the river consisted of pebbles and sand. Taking up a handful, Andrea scrubbed it against her skin. Not as good as a soap and scrub, but it would do.

So she scrubbed until her skin was red and raw. Scrubbed and scrubbed and she might actually be bleeding a little.

Andrea was alone for the first time in days. She was not the sort of person meant to be in the company of others for such a long time. Now that she was alone, just herself and her thoughts, all her pent up stress began to spill out.

Angry tears put salt on her lips. A sob escaped her. She hated everything about this. Hated that she was bathing in a fucking stream in the middle of the wilderness with nothing to her name but some clothes and a couple books.

She was so, so angry that she wanted to punch something, hit something, scream.

Some part of her mind recognized the fit as another form of panic attack. Hadn’t she gotten over those? It must be the situation. It was all incredibly stressful.

With the revelation that this was, in fact, a panic attack, Andrea managed to start grounding herself. She looked for colors, listened for sounds, sought out bright objects. Slowly but surely, she came back to herself. Her lungs ached, and her chest shuddered with every inhalation.

Her left forearm was definitely scrubbed within an inch of its life. The skin of it was red, and tender to the touch. Andrea sighed heavily, burying her head in her hands.

“Stupid, stupid,” she muttered.

Andrea didn’t stay in the water much longer after that. Raking her hands through her wet hair, she made her way over to where she’d stashed her dirty clothes and retrieved them. They didn’t look too bad, but she’d have to wait until they were dry to see if the smell of it had gone. The stains would probably never leave.

She climbed out of the water and onto one of the river rocks, sitting down to let the air sweep the water from her skin. The spring breeze obliged, whisking both water and warmth from Andrea’s body. She shivered.

She could hear the sound of voices not too far away, barely audible over the rushing of the water. Suddenly, she laughed; this was almost like that scene from Mulan. Thankfully, Andrea was not pretending to be a man, and had not had to see any hairy asses or man-parts.

Alone like this, with her breakdown over with, she found that she quite enjoyed the solitude. It felt good to simply sit in silence, to be able to cast her eyes about without meeting anyone else’s gaze. She almost felt happy to be here.

The childish part of her was tempted to make a game of it. To play at being a water spirit, or a wood spirit, sitting in her element and singing. But what to sing? The first song that came to mind was “Into the West” from the Lord of the Rings movies.

She wouldn’t be able to sing it as well as Annie Lennox, but then, she didn’t have to worry about an audience, did she. She was absolutely and blessedly alone.

It was some time before she felt ready to leave, after giving a passionate rendition of as many songs as she could remember from The Phantom of the Opera. Wading out of the water, Andrea slung her damp clothing over the slender, sleek branches of a tree that she didn’t recognize.

The clothes that Gandalf had bought were fairly good quality. The seams were tight, at least, and didn’t chafe. The trousers were a little too long on her, but she rolled up the bottoms and left it at that. The tunic was also too loose, so she cinched her belt at the waist and pulled the drawstrings tight. After a moment’s consideration, she rolled up the long sleeves of it– the feeling of fabric against her left arm was unpleasant to say the least.

Wearing damp underwear was uncomfortable, but Andrea would bear it. She left off her bra, though.

Gathering her still-wet clothes into a bundle, she took her boots and jacket in hand and set off down towards camp. The sounds of splashing and chatter grew louder as she approached. She made sure to avoid sight of the water.

Humming under her breath, Andrea stepped into the small clearing that made up their camp. She spread her clothes over a nearby bush and dumped her jacket and boots with her bags.

Glancing up at the sky, Andrea estimated the time to be somewhere around six in the afternoon. A while still until dusk, and time enough to read. She dug out I, Robot from inside her messenger bag. Sitting back against a tree, she opened to the first short-story and began to read.

She wasn’t very far in when the brush towards the river rustled and gave way to someone. She glanced up, praying that whoever it was wasn’t naked.

Thorin wasn’t naked, thankfully. He looked a little damp, and without his fur-lined coat he looked slightly smaller. Still, he managed to affect an air of high nobility. No one looking at such a man as Thorin Oakenshield could doubt his royal blood.

“Miss Chen,” he said, looking Andrea over. His eyes lingered on the red-raw skin of her forearm. “I was beginning to wonder if I would have to send a search party to find you.”

Andrea watched the Dwarf king as he set his things down by his own bags and began to lace up his boots. “Have you been looking for me?” Andrea asked, frowning quizzically.

“Kili and Ori were worried when you vanished,” Thorin replied stiffly. “I dissuaded them from searching for you.”

“Ah.” Andrea laughed. “Yes, that’s for the best.”

Thorin took up a bow and quiver from his possessions, slinging them both over his back. “In the future,” he said, marching past Andrea and out towards the woods, “Inform the Company of your whereabouts.”

“And where are you going?” Andrea asked wryly, watching him go. He looked almost normal without his coat and layers. Like any woodsman off to hunt.

Thorin didn’t reply, and soon vanished from sight.

Not even Thorin’s silent dismissal could darken Andrea’s mood, which was greatly improved after her time in solitude. She resolved to take more time away from the Company when she could– maybe a walk every evening when they made camp. It would probably go a long way in restoring her energy.

Smiling to herself, she settled down to read.

~~~

A few more days passed, at which point Andrea began to wonder if anything remarkable would happen– she didn’t remember how long it was going to take to get to Rivendell, but she knew that the movie, at least, had scenes between the Shire and Rivendell (and the trolls). It had been almost two weeks since they set out from the Shire. Were any of those things going to happen?

She got her answer soon enough.

They made camp below a rocky overhang, up on the highlands. It was a good position, honestly. High enough to see far over the lands below. Defensible, if push came to shove.

Andrea shook those thoughts away. She’d been hearing too many of Dwalin’s battle stories.

The Company had long since bedded down for the night, though not everyone was sleeping– Gandalf, who never seemed to sleep, was smoking his pipe. Andrea didn’t feel tired enough to sleep; those walks she’d started taking were beginning to rejuvenate her. She hadn’t realized just how exhausted she’d been as of late.

The fire didn’t provide quite enough light to read by comfortably, so she was helping Kili fletch new arrows. Or rather, he was fletching arrows and letting her toy with a spare one. Andrea watched him work by the light of the low fire, trying to figure out how exactly he was doing it. He glanced up at her and flashed a grin.

“If you finish up with that one, miss, I’ll keep it special.” The Dwarf prince winked.

Andrea huffed, a smile touching her lips. “It would only be good for seppuku.”

Kili frowned quizzically. Past Kili, Fili glanced over from his pipe-aided meditation, one brow raised.

Andrea’s gaze fell to the fire. “It’s a warrior’s suicide. Death by his own hand rather than capture by the enemy.” She smirked. “I think it would be hard to perform properly with a poorly fletched arrow, though.”

Kili’s gaze fell back to his arrows. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

Fili grunted around his pipe. “No Dwarf would die at his own hand when he could die fighting.”

Andrea’s hands fell to her lap. She looked up at the two of them. They sat, not quite side by side, but close enough that one could tell they were familiar. Their possessions spilled together as only siblings’ could, mixed up until one couldn’t tell what was whose.

They were going to die. And die fighting.

“Show me how you do it, Kili?” Andrea shifted to the edge of her bedroll, leaning over as Kili obligingly displayed his hands.

Not far away, Bilbo’s head popped out of his bedroll like a gopher’s. Andrea glanced at him as he got up from his blankets and stretched.

“No, like this,” Kili admonished quietly, holding up his hands and demonstrating the proper way. Andrea peered at his fingers, which moved with an easy skill born of familiarity.

Something echoed from the lands below. Like a screeching bird, or a shrieking pig. Andrea jolted, every muscle in her body tensing; she knew that sound. But she’d only ever heard it through television speakers.

“What was that?” Bilbo hissed from his position by the ponies.

Andrea knew this moment.

“They’re Orcs,” she said quietly, but too loud in the stillness of the night. Too late, she realized that it was Kili who should have said that.

Bilbo rushed back to the fire on light feet. “Orcs?” he repeated.

Cloth brushed against stone. Andrea turned her head to it and saw Thorin straighten from where he’d dozed sitting against the boulders not two meters away. He looked out over the fog that shielded the lowlands, every line of his body tense.

“Throat-cutters,” Fili explained casually, taking a puff of his pipe. “There’ll be dozens of them out there; the Lone Lands are crawling with them.”

“They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep,” Kili added in a furtive voice. “Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.”

Bilbo looked back out over the horizon, a rather ill expression on his face. Silence hung for a few moments. Then the Dwarf princes chuckled, exchanged amused grins.

“Do you think that’s funny?” Thorin’s voice cut through their mirth like a knife. He stood up from his seat, striding forward towards the fire. “You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?” His gaze fell on Andrea. “Orcs take more than just lives.”

Kili looked at her too, as did Fili. Their expressions became suitably remorseful. Andrea would have been indignant at being used as a lesson if not for the fact that Thorin was all too correct.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Kili muttered, his gaze flicking to the ground.

Thorin only shook his head. “No you didn’t,” he sneered, brushing roughly past Bilbo. “You know nothing of the world.”

Andrea watched him walk away, his every step hard on the dry grass. She thought of his fate. She’d been thinking about it a lot. Ever since she first laid eyes on him.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” Balin comforted. He walked over and leaned against the stone cliff-face against which their camp was set. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs.”

Fili frowned, looking out at Thorin, who stood at the edge of their stony ridge. Kili still stared at the fire. Andrea wished she could find some way to comfort him.

Balin told the tale of the battle at Moria. Of Azog the Defiler, sworn to destroy the line of Durin, beheading King Thror. Of Thrain’s grief-driven madness, how they found no trace of him after the battle.

“That is when I saw him,” Balin said, the light of memory in his eye. “A young Dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc.”

And he told the tale of the birth of Thorin Oakenshield. His valor, his courage, his ingenuity. How he cut off the Pale Orc’s arm and crippled him

“Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.” Balin told of Thorin leading the charge, forcing the Orcs back. “Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, nor song that night.” The old Dwarf’s eyes shone with mourning. “For our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.” He looked over at Thorin. “And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King.”

King under the Mountain, Andrea thought. A title for a Mountain-less king.

With his fit of moodiness apparently over, Thorin made his way back. Andrea remembered briefly how dramatic she’d found this part in the movie. Overly dramatic, to say the least.

At least the rest of the Company had the grace to at least pretend to remain sleeping or otherwise occupied.

But that meant that something was wrong, wasn’t it? That things weren’t going as they should. In the movie several of them had been standing, staring at Thorin in awe as though they hadn’t heard the tale a hundred times before– Balin was fond of his stories, as Andrea had discovered. Here, they did not. Things were going wrong. Her butterfly wings were flapping and things were changing.

Andrea wished this were all just a story again, one she could look at from the safety of her own home and imagination.

“But the Pale Orc.” Bilbo looked at Balin in question. “What happened to him?”

“He slunk back to the hole from whence he came,” Thorin rumbled out, returning to his place at the boulders. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

Andrea twisted the thong meant to fletch the arrows between her fingers. “In stories, no great evil dies the first time it’s defeated,” she said. “It grows in strength, and comes back, only to be defeated again.”

“These are not your stories, woman,” Thorin said snappishly. “Azog rots, as does the memory of him.”

Andrea frowned. Some amount of temper flared up in her. She was almost tempted to refute him, to tell him that Azog the Defiler was still living, still hunting him.

That Azog the Defiler would kill him.

But she didn’t. Instead she looked to Bilbo, and said, “You know, it’s said that the first Orcs were Elves.”

Bilbo blinked. Kili and Fili perked in interest.

Andrea didn’t have much Middle-Earth lore inside of her, but she did have this. Something she picked up from greedily sifting through wikis and such while The Two Towers played in the background.

“When the world was young, still forming, the Elves were awakened and dwelt as in the Garden of Eden.” Andrea realized that the reference to Eden might just fly over her audience’s heads. She let that thought slide and continued. “They knew only song, and nature, and one another. Conceived by Eru alone, the Valar did not know of them.

“But Melkor, the Dark Lord, found them, and he set out to corrupt them. He sent spirits amongst them, and taught them to fear the Valar, so that when the Valar found them, the Elves hid away. Eventually, the Elves learned that the Valar meant them no harm. But there were those whom the Dark Lord took away. Melkor twisted them into a mockery of Eru’s intentions; Eru made them beautiful, so Melkor made them ugly, in mind, body, and soul.

“They bred in the dark, the first enemies of Middle Earth. The first to cause weapons of war to be taken in hand. Where once they may have been pitiable, now they are only evil.”

Andrea may or may not have been embellishing a little– her memory wasn’t that good, after all. But all good tales deserve embellishment.

“It’s fitting,” Kili said after a long moment. “That Elves should be the origins of Orcs. Revealing what’s really inside them.” He sneered slightly, and Andrea saw that hatred of Elves he’d been taught.

“It’s been a very long time since the creation,” Andrea said, unsure how to refute him. “Both Elves and Orcs have diverged greatly. And besides…” she glanced at Gandalf, silent thus far. “It’s only a story.”

“Yes,” said Gandalf. He puffed at his pipe. “Only a story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter :) kudos and comments asked for and welcome


	6. Chapter 6

“That’s it, pull it back. No, not like– yeah.”

Kili was not the best teacher, but he was certainly an enthusiastic one. Andrea pulled back the string of the bow, aiming an arrow at a makeshift target carved into a tree. Her arms shook with the effort. The tree wasn’t even that far away.

Andrea held that for a moment, then lowered the bow without loosing the arrow. “I think it would be easier to learn how to use a blade,” she said irritably. “There’s less finesse involved in stabbing things.”

“Bows are more useful,” Kili replied cheerfully. “You can shoot down dinner, enemies, and annoying brothers. They’re a lot more multipurpose.”

“And harder to work with.” Andrea lifted the bow, aimed as best she could, and let the arrow fly. It wobbled through the air, struck the bottom of the tree, and bounced of with a faint thunk.

Andrea didn’t really notice, though, because she was too busy hunching in on herself with a few choice swears. She understood, now, why some Amazons had removed their right breast so they could better shoot their bows. It hurt like hell to have a bowstring snap over your nipple.

“You okay, miss?” Kili asked, bending over to meet her eye.

“I think I’d be better off leaving the shooting to you Dwarves,” Andrea managed after sucking in a few lungfuls of cold spring air.

Kili laughed. “Well, you must learn to defend yourself, Miss Chen. If you will not accept my shooting lessons, maybe Fili will teach you how to wield a sword.”

Andrea glanced at Fili, who was never far from his brother. The blonde Dwarf shrugged. “I could show you a few things,” he assented. “Mind you, it’ll be a long time before you reach my esteemed level of experti–”

A hand darted out and cuffed Fili about the head. Dwalin shook his head with a grumble and said, “If you want to learn defense, Miss Chen, it’s best you ask it of someone other than our princes. They have more spirit than they have experience.”

“We have experience enough!” Fili protested, ducking from under the warrior’s arm. “I seem to remember being beaten black and blue by the flat of your blade, and if that isn’t battle I don’t know what is.”

Dwalin only scoffed. “I think our Miss Chen will be a far better behaved student than the two of you.” Quick as a whip, he stole the sword from Fili’s belt and tossed it to Andrea. She took a step back, startled, and the blade fell onto the grass.

“Go on,” Dwalin commanded, drawing a sword of his own. “Pick it up.”

Slowly, Andrea bent and picked up the sword. It was heavy in her hand, far heavier than she’d thought it would be. Experimentally, she swung it back and forth. It was heavier than expected, yes, but now that she was holding it she couldn’t imagine trying to use a sword that didn’t weight much.

“Don’t hold it like that,” Dwalin rebuked. “Like this.”

Andrea tried to hold the blade as demonstrated. Dwalin shook his head and stepped over, manipulating her arm and hand to his satisfaction before stepping back again.

“The most basic moves,” he said, “are the thrust and the slash. Watch.”

Andrea watched closely at the Dwarf as he demonstrated the two moves. God, she thought, I hate learning new things.

By the end of an hour, Andrea was not quite black and blue, but she had aches in places she didn’t know even had muscles, and had begun to wish she was one of those girls who learned how to sword-fight within a single chapter.

Dwalin seemed somewhat satisfied, at least; his scowl bore a slightly lighter tint to it. “Well you won’t be dying too quickly,” he grunted. “Until you’ve learned more, the best defense you have is running away.”

Andrea sat heavily on the cool grass. “That’s the plan,” she said breathlessly.

“You’re not that bad,” Bilbo said. He, along with the three youngest Dwarves of the Company, had been watching Andrea’s humiliating lesson. “I daresay any Hobbit would be impressed.”

“If they managed to get over their disapproval,” Andrea agreed. She flopped back onto the ground, arms splayed out. The sky looked very nice, just taking on the deep blue of early morning. A lovely contrast to the afternoon rains of the past few days.

Bilbo hummed. “True enough. No proper Hobbit approves of violence. We aren’t at all adventurous.”

“You don’t need to be.” Andrea thought of the four Hobbits of The Lord of the Rings. Had they even been born yet? “You just need the courage to carry on in the circumstances you’ve been dropped into.” She cast a smile at Bilbo. “I think Hobbits have a lot more courage than they think.”

The Hobbit smiled back slightly. The smile fell when Thorin, preceded by his frown, stomped into the little clearing. He looked about, his eyes lingering disapprovingly on Bilbo and Andrea.

“We’re heading out,” he said shortly. Dwalin nodded, walking past Thorin and through the brush towards the camp. Ori and Bilbo scurried past the Dwarf king as well, leaving Kili and Fili to haul Andrea to her feet.

“Ayoh!” Andrea stumbled forward under the force of their hands. “Hours of riding after this morning?” She tsked to herself.

“You’ll get used to it,” Kili said with a smile.

Fili bent and retrieved his sword from the grass. “Everyone has to start somewhere,” he agreed.

“Kili, Fili, come on,” Thorin snapped. His nephews moved marginally quicker.

Despite a couple setbacks (namely the fact that Gloin refused to leave until he’d found his spare tinderbox), they were soon on the road.

After three weeks of riding a pony for several hours a day, Andrea considered herself to be getting rather good at it. She wouldn’t be winning any horse shows, but she could get from point A to point B without many hitches, and that’s really all that matters.

The day carried on as usual. Andrea listened to the idle chatter and the spells of easy silence, deeply regretting allowing Dwalin to try to teach her the art of the blade; her thighs and glutes ached with the minimal effort required to stay upright on a pony.

“Miss Chen,” Balin said sometime before noon, “Might the Company prevail upon you another of your stories?”

Andrea stopped pitying her physical state and looked up. “I don’t see why not,” she said after a few moments. “What kind of story would you like?”

If Balin replied, it couldn’t be heard, because Kili said enthusiastically, “A story about a prince!”

“Two princes,” Fili amended.

“Princely brothers,” Kili said, nodding in agreement.

Andrea huffed and rolled her eyes. “Alright, a story about a pair of princes.” She considered it for a few moments, before her thoughts settled on one story in particular that she knew like the back of her hand.

She looked over her shoulder to where Gandalf’s grey horse plodded along. The wizard looked ahead, expression placid. He probably wouldn’t approve of telling the story to this company– hell, neither did Andrea, but… she didn’t need to name names.

“Once,” she begun slowly, “There were two princes. Men of Gondor, the White City.”

Quiet fell over the Company as they all listened. Even Thorin’s stormy silence seemed slightly more attentive. Kili and Fili stared at Andrea openly as she continued.

“There could not be two different men. The elder brother was tall and broad, a great warrior. The younger brother was slender, more known for his bookishness than his might. And yet, they were both great men. The people of Gondor loved them both equally… but their father did not.” Images of Sean Bean and John Noble flashed through Andrea’s mind, as well as… whoever had played Faramir. “Their father, ruler of Gondor, much preferred his elder son, for the elder held a strength more easily perceived.”

Hums and murmurs of acknowledgment followed Andrea’s words.

“One year,” she continued, “the two brothers and their army reclaimed a city long lost to the Enemy. They celebrated together, praising one another. But their mirth was cut short by the arrival of their father.

“To his elder son, the ruler of Gondor said, ‘The lands to the north and west are calling a council; a great power has come to light. You will go.’

“‘I cannot,’ the eldest said. ‘My people need me here, to keep this city. Send your younger son, he is more than suited to the task.’

“The ruler of Gondor turned to his younger son. ‘Him? No, he is too weak. You will go, my mighty warrior. Go to the council and bring this mighty gift to our people, that it might make us stronger against the Enemy.’ And so the elder brother went.”

Andrea swallowed a little, her throat slightly dry. She continued with, “But the power that the ruler of Gondor wished for was not what he thought it to be. It was a great evil, forged in darkness and destruction. The shape of the evil is lost to time but…” She looked over her shoulder to Gandalf, and found him watching her, his eyes glinting under the shadow of his hood. “But it is said that it was forged in the form of a golden ring.

“The evil could only be destroyed where it had been made, so a company was formed to guard its bearer, who would carry it to its destruction. The elder prince of Gondor joined the quest, but he did not intend to allow it to be destroyed. No, he wished to take it to Gondor, where it might be used to protect his city.

“The evil that the company bore was more powerful than any of them had thought. It whispered promises of power in their ears. It took the prince’s desire to protect his city and twisted it into a desire for the power of the Ring. He could not resist its temptation.”

She thought suddenly of Thror and his goldsickness. Perhaps the Company thought of it too, because a tension filled the air.

Andrea hurried to carry on. “The elder prince of Gonder tried to take the evil from its bearer. He was thwarted, and when its bearer fled, the influence of the Ring faded. The prince was ashamed, and he wept, but he could not mourn for long. Their company had been set upon by Orcs, and scattered through the woods. The prince leapt to the aid of the youngest and most defenseless of their company.” Andrea felt a faint memory of grief, despite the fact that Boromir was fictional.

But not fictional here, she thought. He just hasn’t been born yet.

“He took an Orcish arrow to the chest, but he did not stop fighting to save the youngest of the company. Another arrow made him stumble, but he did not cease. It was the third arrow that drove him to his knees, and he watched as those he had fought to protect were carried away by Orcs.

“He died ashamed and mourning, his sacrifice almost meaningless. His body was laid in a boat and let down the river, while the remnants of the company mourned him.

“But the evil carried on. It was born away over many miles, until at last its bearer was brought before the younger prince of Gondor. ‘Where is my brother?’ the prince asked the bearer. ‘I saw a vision of him, laid in a boat and floating to the sea. And here is his shield, cloven in two, which washed up on the shores not two days ago.’

“‘The evil tempted him, and he could not resist,’ the bearer replied. ‘So you must let me go, lest you fall under its spell as well.’

“But the evil was already whispering to the younger prince. Whispering promises of power, and his father’s love.” Andrea paused, glancing at her audience. Kili and Fili looked entranced, and Ori looked as though he would very much like to write this down. “But the younger prince was deaf to the hisses and snarls of the evil. He was not mighty, like his brother, but he held a strength of soul that no other prince of Gondor had ever possessed. So he let the bearer go. And when the evil had been destroyed, he was made king of Gondor. And he ruled justly and fairly, not a warrior, but a leader.”

Not a satisfying ending, but Andrea didn’t want to go into all the minutiae of it all. She’d been long-winded enough as it was.

“That’s a lot different from your other stories,” Kili said after several long moments.

“I liked it,” Ori declared.

The rest of the Company grunted or grumbled their various opinions.

“It was certainly a very interesting story,” Gandalf said enigmatically. Andrea carefully did not look back at him.

“It seems to be a part of a larger story,” Balin observed thoughtfully.

Andrea laughed. “It is. The whole story is a lot longer, practically an epic. I don't know if I could ever tell it all.” She definitely didn't want to. Dwarves are long-lived– what if it stayed in their minds and they recognized it when the tale of The Lord of the Rings began?

Fili leaned over the head of his pony. “So what’s the moral of it, then? It seems like it ought to have a moral to it.”

Andrea blinked, and said, “Well… I guess it's about temptation. Power corrupts, and the elder brother, even though he was a good man, was thirsty for power. But the younger brother just wanted the good and love of his people.” She looked at Thorin’s broad back. “The moral of the story is that greed and want for power can drive even the best of men to madness.”

The Company continued on in thoughtful silence. Andrea felt Gandalf’s eyes on the back of her head.

~~~

Andrea liked rain. She liked the wind and smell of it, the coolness. She hated being in it though.

She pulled Bombur’s spare cloak closer about herself and cursed the stormy skies and the rainy seasons that apparently plagued all parts of the world. She also cursed the cramps that tore at her belly– her period had started yesterday, unexpectedly expected as always. Thankfully, she’d caught it before it could stain her underwear.

Riding a pony while your uterus squeezes out its lining is exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Master Gandalf,” called Dori above the sound of the rain. “Can’t you do something about this deluge?”

If she’d been any sort of animal, Andrea’s ears would have pricked up. She was only human, however, with round-tipped, immovable ears. So she only looked to Gandalf for the expected reply.

Gandalf looked about as irritated by the wet as the rest of the Company. Water came off his hat in sheets as he said imperiously, “It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to rain until the rain is done.” He shook his head. Still more water fell from his hat. “If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another wizard.”

“Are there any?” said Bilbo, as he was meant to.

“What?” Gandalf asked.

“Other wizards,” Bilbo clarified.

“Ah.” Gandalf hummed. “There are five of us. The greatest of our Order is Saruman the White.”

How much did Gandalf know, Andrea wondered. He knew that Thorin and his kin would die, but did he know much else of the Tolkien stories? Did he know that Saruman was an agent of Sauron? He’d said it wasn’t good for someone to know their own future… so maybe he didn’t know.

“Then there are the two Blue wizards,” Gandalf went on, then paused. “You know, I’ve quite forgotten their names.”

“How long has it been since you saw them, to forget their names?” Andrea asked.

Gandalf shook his head. “Far too long, my dear. They went to the lands of the far east long ago, and I haven’t seen or heard of them since.”

“And the fifth wizard?” asked Bilbo. “Who is he?”

“Well, that would be Radagast the Brown.”

“Has it been long since you saw him too?” Bilbo questioned.

Andrea looked sharply at the Hobbit: that wasn’t what he was supposed to say.

“Some time, yes,” Gandalf replied. “He’s a solitary sort of person, preferring the company of animals to that of people. He keeps a watchful eye on the vast forest lands to the east– and a good thing, too. For always evil will seek to find a foothold in this world.”

No, no, damn. Her question had disrupted things, had changed the conversation from the path it had taken in the movie.

But not entirely, some part of Andrea’s mind said. It came back around in the end, if her memory served her right. But she couldn’t be sure– she hadn’t watched the first movie in a while, barely remembered any specific dialogue beyond generalities. Would she know if she changed things further?

Such thoughts consumed Andrea until late afternoon. The rain had stopped, and they’d come from the edge of the forest to find a ruined homestead in a rocky, hillocked clearing.

Thorin turned his pony and addressed the Company. “We’ll camp here for the night,” he declared.

The Company set about doing as told with all the speed of a mediocrely-oiled and rather road-weary machine.

Andrea remembered this part of the movie with relative clarity. Certainly enough to know that this was where the trolls came in.

One part of her wanted to try and put a stop to camping here, just so they could avoid the peril of being kidnapped and eaten by trolls. But if they didn’t, would they find the troll hole? The one filled with a chest of gold that Bilbo would bring home, the small Elf-made sword he would give to Frodo. If they didn’t find that, what then? Would they even pass by Rivendell? What more consequences would come from one change to the storyline?

Andrea hopped off her pony and immediately forgot about her dilemma when her body reminded her that it wasn’t pregnant and was thus shoving all its baby-making materials out in a huff. Holding tight to her pony’s saddle with one hand, Andrea doubled over and pressed a hand to her lower belly.

“God, what I wouldn’t give for ibuprofen.” Andrea waited for the pain to subside and straightened up. She heard Thorin giving orders.

“Fili, Kili,” he said, “Look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.”

“Yes, uncle,” the princes replied, twin looks of resignation on their faces.

Kili walked over to Andrea, holding out a hand. “I’ll take that from you, miss,” he said, smiling.

Andrea let him take her pony’s halter and lead the quiet creature away. She heard Thorin telling Oin and Gloin to get a fire going, and turned to see Gloin beckoning her over. She picked her way past a hillock of grass and over to the two Dwarves.

From the ruins of the house came Gandalf’s voice. “I think it would be wiser to move on.”

Andrea bent to pull up the wiry grass where Oin indicated, clearing a space for a fire. She tilted her head to Gandalf, watching as Thorin approached the wizard under the shadows of the broken timbers.

“We could make for the Hidden Valley,” said Gandalf, quiet to Andrea’s ears.

Thorin’s reply was too quiet to hear, but the bite in his tone was unmistakable. Then they both walked too far away for Andrea to hear them, leaving her to help Oin and Gloin make the fire and try to remember how that conversation had gone.

It had been Gandalf trying to convince Thorin to get Elrond to read the map, hadn’t it? Thorin said no, of course. Pride is common to all races, Andrea thought.

And Thorin was particularly salty about Elves. Andrea couldn’t blame him, sort of. Watching someone turn their back on you was painful, even if they’d done it knowing they couldn’t have saved you.

She didn’t know if the Elvenking had extended aid to the survivors of Smaug’s destruction, though. It wouldn’t have hurt him any to do so.

Andrea didn’t know a lot of things, she was beginning to realize.


	7. Chapter 7

Gandalf stormed off in a huff once his argument with Thorin concluded. He shouted about the stubbornness of Dwarves, and the merit of his own company. Bilbo appeared very perturbed by the wizard’s departure– the Company, less so.

Andrea just continued to help make the fire, her mind blazing as she tried to think of what she would or wouldn’t do to prevent the trolls from kidnapping them all. Except, did she really have to prevent it? Bilbo and Gandalf had it well in hand, she knew that.

Those thoughts went around and around in her head for the next couple hours, with absolutely no conclusion in sight.

That was her problem, had been since she was a child. She hated making decisions– at least, ones that mattered. She could never decide if she really wanted to go swimming in the pool, or if she really wanted those shoes, or if she really wanted to spend her money on a bag of sweet marshmallows. Did she really want to go to university? Did she really want to put the effort into getting a job she would enjoy? Did she really want to try to write a story that might end up going nowhere?

She’d always chosen inaction over action. It was easier. Andrea was a dedicated worker, she knew, but a very lazy person.

It seemed things were going to play out as they always did in her life.

Andrea stood by the fire, helping Bombur make the stew. The rotund Dwarf was an eager teacher, revealing the art of making delicious food with such meager ingredients.

“I’d like to let you meet my wife someday,” he said. “She’s an even better cook than I am– but I’m sure you’ve guessed that.” He patted his plump belly and laughed.

“Well, if she’s better than you then she must be one of the best.” Andrea smiled.

Bombur nodded. “Oh, she is, believe me.”

He went on to describe his wife, whose boisterous personality had filtered well into their three perfect children. Talk of children had Andrea asking whether Dwarves grew beards when they were young, and was told that yes, every Dwarf was born with thick hair on their head and at least a wisp of hair on their chin.

“My oldest is only forty-eight, but he’s got a strong beard growing,” Bombur said proudly.

Gloin spoke up to praise his own son. “My Gimli’s got a great beard already, and he’s pushing seventy.”

How old had Gimli been when he died? Andrea thought, stirring the large pot of stew. He’d been lord of some fancy caves, Aglarond or something. The Glittering Caves, right? And then Legolas had taken Gimli with him when he left for the West, when Gimli was rather old.

Andrea wondered how Legolas had coped –would cope?– with the loss of his closest companion.

“There we have it, I think it’s done.” Bombur took the ladle from Andrea and took a small sip. “Yes, good. Grab the bowls, miss?”

From the edge of camp came the Hobbit, wearing a disconcerted expression. “He’s been a long time,” said Bilbo as Andrea helped Bombur ladle soup into the plain bowls.

“Gandalf?” Andrea glanced up. “He’ll be back, don’t worry.”

She glanced about the Company, counting heads. Bombur handed her another bowl just as she remembered that Kili and Fili were watching the ponies. “Could you take these to our princes?” Andrea asked, holding the bowls out to Bilbo. He took them, and she stuck a rough-hewn spoon into each bowl.

Bilbo darted off, holding the hot bowls carefully. Andrea turned back to Bombur, handing out bowls to the rest of the Company as they wandered over to the fire.

Andrea took the last two bowls once almost everyone had received their share, stepping around the fire and walking towards the leader of the Company.

Thorin was brooding as usual, towards the edge of the camp. He looked at the crumbling homestead, brow furrowed. Andrea sat down beside him.

“Your dinner, Master Dwarf,” she said, holding out one of the two bowls. Thorin took it with a grunt that may have been the word thanks. With an answering hum that roughly translated to ‘you’re welcome’, Andrea ate a bit of her soup. It was good, as all Bombur’s food was.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Andrea followed Thorin’s gaze to the homestead. “What do you think happened to them?” she asked.

Thorin glanced aside at her, surprise flashing in his eyes– and with good reason. Andrea had fallen into the habit of giving Thorin his dinner, mainly because he never actually came over to get it and that one time Balin had asked Andrea to give Thorin his dinner had made it part of her nightly routine. But she hardly ever spoke to the Dwarf king, besides getting his attention.

“Raiders are not uncommon,” Thorin replied after a few long moments.

Andrea wondered if it had been the trolls that killed the family. She couldn’t remember if their fates had ever been given.

Silence fell between them, stiff but not quite uncomfortable. Andrea ate her food quickly, more out of habit than anything else. ‘An efficient eater’ her mother had called her once, when Andrea complained that she ate like a starving man. Back home, Andrea always ate faster than everyone else. Current company, however, was very practiced at eating quickly– they’d all had hungry days, Andrea could see it in them.

Thought of home and her mom sent a pang of homesickness through her. Or maybe it was a pang of period cramps.

Andrea was more than half-finished with her soup when Fili and Kili came racing out of the woods. They weren’t holding their bowls, she noticed. Their tense expressions were more worrisome.

Thorin stood up, setting aside his bowl. Tension rippled through the Company.

“What is it?” Thorin demanded, his back to Andrea.

“Trolls, took the ponies,” Kili said between quick pants.

“Sent the burglar. He got caught,” Fili finished, rubbing his chest and taking carefully measured breaths.

Thorin didn’t even pause. “Get your weapons,” he ordered.

The Company leapt into action, taking up arms and dousing the fire. Thorin picked up his scabbard, belting it about his waist. His gaze fell on Andrea.

Andrea looked back up at him. Something like fear writhed in her chest. The shrieks of Orcs in the Lone Lands had been bad enough, but being this close to actual trolls was absolutely terrifying.

Thorin considered her for a moment, a frown on his face. He took a step forward, pulling something out of his belt. It turned out to be a dagger when he held it out to her. “Go into the woods that way,” he said, nodding to the woods opposite where Kili and Fili had come from. “Don’t go far. Stay hidden.”

Andrea took the dagger from him, her fingers brushing uncomfortably against his rough palm. She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just nodded. Thorin gave a curt nod in response, turning to his Company. He made a quick gesture, and then they were off– a horde of stampeding, four foot ten bears.

Andrea stared at the rustling underbrush that closed behind them. The dagger was heavy in her hand.

What if something went wrong? What if one of her actions in the past few weeks had changed things? What if the brief delay Thorin had taken had caused Bilbo to be killed! Too many possibilities, but Andrea was paralyzed.

She had to make a decision, right here, right now.

It felt like she was tearing at something inside of herself. Pulling at invisible bonds. It felt like trying to move while in the clutches of sleep paralysis.

She had to choose, had to choose, had to make a choice, right now, right now. Time was running out, she’d spent too long just sitting here already. She had to choose, had to–

With a gasp, like a drowning man breaching the surface of water, Andrea leapt to her feet and ran into the woods after the Company. Her feet crushed leaves, bushes and ferns brushed against her clothes. Her heart beat loud in her chest.

The sight of fire through the trees snapped her from her panic. Ducking down, she crept forward as quietly as she could. Voices filtered through the trees– the grunts and protests of the Company, the dialogue of the trolls.

Pressing herself against the rough bark of a tree, Andrea peeked around the broad trunk.

One of the trolls held a wriggling Bilbo, two fingers pinching the Hobbit’s head threateningly. The other two trolls were dealing with the Company, one of them wrestling Dwarves into sacks, the other tying several to a spit over the fire.

The troll in charge of putting the Company into sacks tossed the last one down. Judging by the roar of anger, it was Dwalin. “Almost done there, Tom?” the troll said to the one in charge of the spit.

“Yep. Put the burrahobbit in a sack, would ya, William? ‘E looks pretty soft, better save ‘im for dessert,” said Tom.

“Wouldn’t be more’n a mouthful for each of us,” said William, obliging to put poor Bilbo in a sack.

“A soft mouthful, though. Like a Man-kidling, you know? Sweet and chewy.” The last troll (Bert, said some seven-year old voice from the depths of Andrea’s memory) pressed his fingers together like a connoisseur. “Always nice to finish a good meal off with something chewy– good for the jaw.”

“Ain’t nothin’ good with my jaw,” said Tom, rubbing his face. “One of them Dwarves knocked some teeth out! I’ll never chew the same again!”

“And good riddance to ya!” yelled Gloin from the pile of Dwarves on the ground.

William slammed a fist on the ground so hard that the ground beneath Andrea’s feet shuddered. “Shut yer yaps! I’ve a mind to sit on you all and be done with it! Too much trouble to roast a Dwarf, I say– skin’s too hardy.”

“None of that talk! We’re gonna roast ‘em nice and fine, make a good meal of it,” said Bert, turning the spit and feeding the fire. The Dwarves on the spit shouted and swore, and one or two of them were much in danger of having their long beards caught on fire.

“I say we mince them!” said Tom. “Nothing better than minced Dwarf!”

The three trolls argued about the best way to prepare a Dwarf while the Company struggled and Andrea looked on in silent terror.

The trolls talked for some minutes, and finally settled on roasting, since it would be far too much effort to take the Dwarves off the spit now. And still, nothing.

When was Bilbo going to speak up? Or would Gandalf come and fool the trolls into arguing until the sun came up?

Wait. They hadn’t mentioned the sun at all, and hadn’t that been what had clued Bilbo into distracting them? But then where was Gandalf? Still off in a huff?

“Go on then and get those flames higher, these Dwarves won’t roast fast with a heat like that!” declared William.

“Haven’t you ever heard of the right way to prepare Dwarf?”

Andrea didn’t realize she’d even spoken until the words were out of her mouth, her tongue curling into as best an imitation of the trolls’ accents as she could get– that is, a very good imitation.

Everything went quiet. Even the crackling of the fire seemed to pause.

“Was that your mum calling from the grave?” said Tom to William.

William squinted towards the edge of the clearing. “No, something else.” He stomped over to the trees, but Andrea had already run away.

She would never ever speak again after this whole ordeal, Andrea swore to herself. Not ever.

She came around to where half the Company was laid in sacks. Pressing herself flat to the ground, she crawled on her elbows to the Dwarf nearest to the bushes that lined the edge of the forest. That Dwarf turned out to be Thorin, which she discovered when she reached out to touch his shoulder.

Thorin’s head whipped about, and he gave Andrea the most fearsome glare she’d ever seen. “What in Mahal’s name are you doing?” he hissed, his eyes blazing with fury.

Andrea only lunged forward and shoved the knife he’d given her down the front of his sack. Her sleeve scraped against his beard and her knuckles bumped down his armor. She left it somewhere on his chest and hoped he’d get his hand on it while she crawled back into the relative safety of the trees.

“Have you found it, William?” asked Bert, still turning the spit.

“Haven’t found squat,” William grunted.

“Maybe it’s an Elf! I’ve always wanted to try an Elf!” Tom said eagerly.

Andrea ducked behind a tree and called out in as ringing a voice as she could manage, “Elf? I’ve never been so insulted! Here I am giving you sound advice and you call me an Elf!”

William spun around, scanning the trees. Andrea ducked low, sliding to a new hiding place and thanking every star in the sky when her steps came silent.

“Well if you isn’t an Elf, then what are you?” asked Tom.

“None of that,” Bert said. “I want to know what it’s got to say about cooking Dwarves!”

Andrea called out in reply. “Well for starters the fire won’t do anything. Tough skins, they’ve got, and there’s too little time to dawn!”

William grumbled to himself and rounded on Andrea’s hiding place. “What’re you called, not-Elf? Come out, or I’ll pull you out.”

“Does it matter what I’m called? I’ve got the know-how, and you want to eat, and you can’t eat when the sun’s got you turned to stone.” Andrea left her place behind a clump of ferns, retreating into the dark as William came a little too close, peering out into the forest.

“Can’t trust little voices what don’t have faces,” William grunted suspiciously.

“Come now, William, let it talk! I’m curious as to what it’s got to say,” said Bert. He’d stopped turning the spit, much to the discomfort of the Dwarves unfortunate enough to be on the bottom of it.

Andrea took her time making her way to a new spot, careful of William’s glinting eyes. “I’ve got a lot to say,” she said from the safety of a new spot. “Just ask your dinner! I’ve been plaguing them for weeks!” Her heart was in her throat, and her stomach had been replaced by a void. This was like the worst of public speaking.

“She- it’s right!” said Bilbo, and thank god he was clever enough to catch on, even if he was a little late. “We’ve been hearing its voice every night now, it won’t let us sleep!”

Some calls of agreement came from the Company. “Aye!” called Kili. “I haven’t had a wink in ages!” said Nori. “Can hardly go a step without hearing it!” cried Bofur.

“But what is it?” Tom asked, looking very confused. “Is it a ghost? Oh, I don’t know if I’d like that.”

“Nothing of the sort! Only someone who knows how to prepare Dwarf.” Andrea made her way around to the Company on the ground again. Thorin seemed to have gotten himself in the shadows of the trees, free of his sack. He grabbed her arm as she passed.

“Get out of here,” he snapped in a low voice.

Andrea pulled out of his grasp and back into the trees.

“You haven’t said squat about preparing Dwarves,” said Bert. “What’s it got to say, and don’t go delayin’.”

“The very best way, if you must know, is to boil them! Softens that toughness, gets it all gamey.” Andrea could feel her time running out. She looked to the sky and despaired to see that it was barely a shade brighter than dark blue.

How much longer until dawn? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Too long, definitely.

“But it’s too far to the well, and we haven’t got a big enough pot!”

That was a new voice. Andrea didn’t recognize it, and yet she did. It sounded like someone that she might have known, or perhaps a childhood friend. Something plain, something she knew.

“‘E’s right, ain’t got a pot for it,” said William.

“Well then what’s we to do, then?” Tom asked. “I’m getting hungrier by the second!”

“Mince them, that’s all that’s good for.”

“Shut your mouth, Tom, we’ve already said no to that one,” Bert grumbled.

“I didn’t say anything!” Tom turned an affronted glare on Bert. “You’re going mad.”

“It’s you all who’s going mad– can’t even figure how to cook Dwarf,” said the voice that may or may have not been anyone at all.

Tom and Bert rounded on William. “Can’t cook Dwarf!” Bert exclaimed. “You nearly let the burrahobbit let off those ponies, who’s the mad one now!”

“Oi, I didn’t say nothing about bein’ mad!” William defended himself.

Gandalf. It had to be Gandalf.

Andrea stayed where she’d last fled to, pressed tight against the rough bark of a tree. Her hair tangled about her face, and she sucked in cold lungfuls of early morning air. Relief flooded her entire being until she thought her legs might collapse beneath her.

Gandalf kept the trolls arguing for several minutes more, throwing his voice and making them believe that one of the three had insulted the other two. Andrea watched Thorin discreetly free Dwarf after Dwarf of those trapped in sacks, each one creeping into the shadows and about to where the trolls had stashed their weapons.

“Best to sit on them and get on with it,” said the voice that absolutely had to be Gandalf. “But who to sit on first?”

“The last one we got,” Bert decided. “Took out my eye, that one did.”

“Don’t go talking to yourself,” William reprimanded. “But if you want to sit on ‘im, find ‘im. Can’t tell these Dwarves apart.”

“It was the one with the yellow stockings, wasn’t it?” Tom speculated.

“Nonsense, ‘e was the one with the grey stockings.”

“No, I’m sure it was yellow.”

“Yellow it was.”

“Then what’d you call it grey for?”

“I didn’t call anything grey, you’re going batty!”

At this point Andrea couldn’t tell who was speaking and who wasn’t, and neither could the trolls. Over all their heads, the sky lightened and brightened, a shade of blue all too lovely to see.

Then, up on a high boulder, was Gandalf. “Dawn take you all, and be stone to you!” the wizard shouted, striking the stone with his staff. With a great crack, the boulder split down the middle, sending a bright ray of sunlight blazing down on the trolls.

With a groan and a rumble, the trolls turned to stone, stooped and still in the middle of arguing.

Andrea felt like crying.

“Gandalf!” Kili called out, stepping into the clearing with his bow and quiver in hand. “We nearly had them rousted, old man!”

Gandalf’s laughed echoed down from the boulder. “I can see you were doing a quick job of it. Get your fellows down before they’re properly roasted!”

The Dwarves set about helping their friends down. Those on the spit had been stripped of their armor, so that was returned to them. Weapons were retrieved and handed out. Spirits rose very quickly.

Quiet as a mouse, Andrea thought, taking a step out from behind her tree and into the clearing. Not stealthy enough to escape Thorin, it seemed.

“You! Woman!” The Dwarf King shouted, falling back on that habit he had to call Andrea ‘woman’ whenever he was annoyed with her. He seemed far more than annoyed now, though.

Thorin stormed up to Andrea, fully kitted out with his sword and his fur-lined coat and a very angry expression. He loomed over her despite being shorter. “Have you no sense in your head?” he growled. “You could have gotten yourself caught and killed! I told you to hide, not play in the forest like a wood spirit!”

Andrea found herself breaking her promise not to speak after all this was over, the remnants of boldness that pushed her to speak to the trolls in the first place now pushing again. “I did what I could!” she said tersely. “You all would have been troll-food by now if it weren’t for me.”

“I told you to hide in the woods.” Thorin’s hand clenched on the pommel of his sword.

“You can’t tell me to do anything,” Andrea hissed. Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists. “I’m not even in your Company.”

Thorin looked as though he might have something very opinionated to say on that fact. He didn’t have the time to say it, however, because Gandalf quite literally put himself between them.

“It has been a trying night, Thorin,” Gandalf said placatingly. “And while I agree that Miss Chen’s actions were risky to her own person, she had the good sense to stall for time, which none of the rest of you considered.”

Thorin made a discontented noise. His hand released his sword as he visibly restrained his temper. “And where were you, wizard?” he said after a few moments. “I doubted you’d return at all.”

“I was looking ahead,” Gandalf said primly.

Thorin raised a brow. “And what brought you back?”

“Looking behind.”

The Dwarf king frowned. “Could you be more plain?”

“Indeed not,” Gandalf replied cryptically. “But we have other matters to attend; these mountain trolls could not have traveled during the day. They must have dug a hole or cave in which to hide, and troll-holes are always full of treasures.”

Thorin nodded curtly and retreated to his Company. He ordered them to spread out and search for the troll-hole, as well as retrieve all their belongings from camp, leaving Gandalf and Andrea forgotten.

Gandalf turned to face Andrea. His beard seemed to bristle as he said, “That was very foolish of you, Miss Chen.”

Andrea crossed her arms defensively. “I did what I could until you got here.”

Gandalf bristled for a few moments more before relaxing. He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Very foolish, but very clever as well. You’ll make a good companion to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“An unwanted one,” Andrea muttered, glancing at Thorin. The Dwarf king had just finished cuffing his nephews about the head, a gruff smile on his face.

Gandalf hummed. “Thorin worries for those he has taken as his responsibility.”

Andrea glanced up at the wizard, frowning. “I’m not part of his Company.”

“But you could be, I believe. If you asked.”

“...I don’t want to.”

At this point, she couldn't be sure whether she was lying or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still unsure as to whether I handled this whole thing correctly; I tried to be creative, but not too out of it. Would like to know what my readers think :)


	8. Chapter 8

In the end, finding a hole big enough to house three large trolls wasn't that difficult. Bifur sniffed it out, quite literally, within a minute of beginning the search.

The Dwarves made their way in, complaining about the smell but eager to see what loot the trolls had accumulated. Andrea followed close behind, covering her face with her sleeve and breathing through her mouth. Despite her efforts, the air tasted thick with decay.

Past the bend in the tunnel, which kept sunlight from streaming in, lay a large chamber. The Company lifted their torches high to cast as much light as possible. The torchlight flashed off the metals scattered on the ground and in the cobwebbed corners. Andrea toed a small pile of coins. They clinked pleasantly.

“There we go!” said Bofur, quite satisfied. “A good haul, lads!”

“Leave it,” Thorin ordered, examining a pile of scabbards and clothes too small to fit a troll. “There are riches enough at the end of our journey.”

“Aye,” Gloin said sadly, “We’ll have to leave it. But not unprotected. Nori, get a shovel, would ya?”

Nori dashed back up, brushing past Andrea. She took a step to the side, and something crunched beneath her heel. Glancing down, she saw it was a skeleton, small and delicate. A bat, perhaps. She grimaced.

“These were not made by any troll.” Thorin’s voice was quiet, but Andrea heard him nonetheless. She saw his firelit form holding two dusty swords, sheathed in cobwebbed scabbards.

Andrea picked her way over as Gandalf took one sword from Thorin. “Indeed, nor were they forged by any Man,” said Gandalf.

She reached them at last as Gandalf unsheathed the sword by a few centimeters, examining the bright metal of the blade, untouched by time. He bent towards Andrea obligingly. “Would you like to see it, my dear?” he said, holding it out flat

Andrea peered at the sword, trying to remember which of the two Elven swords Gandalf had used. She brushed the cobwebs from the hilt, admiring the craftsmanship. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“It was forged in Gondolin, by my guess,” Gandalf said. “By the High Elves of the First Age.”

To Andrea’s left, Thorin gave a quiet huff. She turned her head to see him begin to set the sword down. Gandalf stopped him with a swift rebuke: “You could not wish for a finer blade,” the wizard snapped.

Thorin’s lips curled into a slight sneer, but he didn’t drop the sword. In a single, rough movement, he pulled it partway out of the scabbard.

This one, Andrea decided, was even more beautiful than the sword Gandalf held. The sweep of the blade was clear from the shape of the scabbard, and the curve of the hilt made her fingers itch for a pencil to sketch it out. The blade gleamed in the torchlight.

The name of it came to her abruptly. “Orcrist,” she whispered, barely audible even to her own ears. The name tasted hard and sharp on her tongue, but fitting. “The Goblin Cleaver.”

Thorin glanced at her for a moment, his gaze unreadable in the shadows of the torchlight. He sheathed the sword. Turning to the pile, he snatched up another dusty scabbard, still attached to a belt. He weighed it for a moment and checked the blade. “Good enough,” he muttered, before thrusting it towards Andrea, hilt forward. “Ask one of the others to sharpen it for you later,” he said brusquely.

Too surprised to refuse, Andrea took the sword, which was a good deal shorter than the ones Gandalf and Thorin held. It was not obviously Elven or Dwarven in make, plain and squarish. The weight of it was reasonable.

“Thank you,” Andrea said.

Thorin only grunted, turning and heading towards the exit. “We’re leaving,” he said to his Company.

Kili and Fili greeted Andrea when she came out. “I got your stuff, Miss Chen,” Kili said, holding up Andrea’s pack.

Andrea smiled. “Thanks, Kili.”

“Is that a sword?” Fili cut in, his attention on the dusty thing in Andrea’s hand.

“Yes. Your uncle picked it out at random and made me take it.”

The brothers laughed. “Well,” Fili said, “I’d say that means he’s worried about you. Can I see it?”

Shrugging, Andrea let the prince take the sword. He looked it over as his uncle had, though he unsheathed it fully and gave it a few experimental swings.

“Man-made, I think,” said Fili, thoughtfully. “Local, probably. Good quality, though. Needs sharpening.” He handed it back. “I can teach you how to do that, if you like.”

“Maybe later,” Andrea said. After a moment’s hesitation, she belted the sword about her waist. It bumped against her left hip awkwardly, too short to reach her knee.

From some meters away, Thorin’s voice rang out: “Something’s coming!”

Fili drew his sword at once, leaping towards the rest of the Company. Kili pushed Andrea’s bag into her arms and unslung his bow from his back.

“Stay together!” Gandalf called. “Arm yourselves!”

Andrea had no choice but to be swept away with the tide as the Company drew their various weapons and ran towards the oncoming commotion.

They hadn’t gone far when the source was found. From the trees and underbrush burst a sled pulled by massive rabbits. On the sleigh was a man all in brown and furs, crying out, “Thieves! Fire! Murder!” The sled came to a halt amidst the Company, which had split like water before the bewildering sight.

A moment of silence allowed Andrea the time to examine the man. His eyes were wide and wild, his beard unkempt and windswept. His cloaks looked unusually dirty, and he clutched a staff topped with a stone in one hand

“Radagast!” Gandalf exclaimed, sounding very pleased. He sheathed his sword, saying, “It’s Radagast the Brown. What on earth are you doing here, my friend?”

None the Company put away their weapons.

“I was looking for you, Gandalf!” said Radagst, in a voice so agitated it gave Andrea anxiety. “Something’s terribly wrong!”

Gandalf frowned. “Step away with me, friend, and explain to me what is so terrible that you have left your hermitage.”

Radagast stepped off his sled, and said a word to the rabbits in a language Andrea didn’t know. The rabbits certainly knew it, however, as they all sat down and began chewing on whatever they’d been storing in their mouths. Radagast bustled away with Gandalf, and they stood some distance away from the Company, speaking in low voices.

Thorin let out a heavy sigh and sheathed his sword, encouraging the rest of the Company to follow suit.

Andrea sat down on a raised tree root, watching the two wizards converse. A yawn came up in her throat, but she stifled it. Sighing, she rubbed her eyes. Damn, she was so tired.

Someone sat down beside her. Looking aside, she found that it was Bilbo, clutching a short sword in his hands.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I found it in the troll-hole,” explained Bilbo.

Andrea reached out. “Can I see it?”

Bilbo shrugged and gave it over. It was too short to be anything but a pocket-knife to a troll, but for Bilbo, it was just the right size. Andrea pulled it half-out of its sheath, admiring the sweeping lines and curves.

“It’s Elf-made, that’s for sure,” she said. She tentatively touched the edge of the blade. Blood beaded in a line on her finger. “Still sharp.” She glanced up at Bilbo, offering a smile. “There are some Elvish blades that are enchanted, you know. They glow when Orcs are nearby.”

Bilbo took the short sword back, looking over it with a new light in his eyes. “Do you think this is one of those?” he wondered aloud.

Andrea shrugged. “Maybe.” She tilted her head. “Why’d you take a sword? I thought Hobbits didn’t like violence.”

The Hobbit pursed his lips. “I thought– well, I don’t want to be such a liability to the Company. Did they tell you how we got into such a state last night?”

“Yes,” Andrea lied.

“If I’d only been better at defending myself, you would never have had to risk your life,” Bilbo lamented.

Andrea smiled. “You were a little foolish, yeah, but so was I. Ask any of the Dwarves and they’ll agree.” She paused. “It was a mistake, Bilbo, and you weren’t the only one at fault. Fili and Kili shouldn’t have sent you alone.” She glanced at the princely brothers, who were leaning against a tree, bored expressions on their faces.

“Perhaps, but I shouldn’t have tried to overstep.” Bilbo sighed heavily. “I should have gone back and told them instead of trying to free the ponies myself.”

“You should have,” Andrea admitted. “But it’s in the past now. You’ll have to learn from your mistakes and move on, do better next time.”

“I don’t want there to be a next time.”

Andrea laughed. “We never do. But we all make mistakes, Master Hobbit. What matters is how we let them shape us.” She looked up, and caught Thorin’s eye. The Dwarf king looked back at her, stern-faced and unreadable. He looked to Bilbo, then over the rest of his Company.

Orcrist was the perfect blade for Thorin, even though it was Elf-made, Andrea thought, studying the Dwarf’s noble profile. They were suited to one another, somehow. Maybe it was just the aesthetics.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Bilbo said, nodding to the wizards.

Andrea tried to remember that dumb subplot the movies had pulled out of their asses. It was about Sauron, right? How his power was steadily rising? She barely remembered any of it, and the theater hadn’t had subtitles for the Orcish in the second movie– or was it the third? That scene where Azog had spoken to that shadow on a stone bridge or something.

Andrea wondered if the powers-that-be expected her to do something about that too.

“Something bad, I guess,” she said.

From far away filtered a drawn out howl, almost like a wolf’s but… not quite.

Bilbo got to his feet quickly. “Is that a wolf? Are there wolves out there?”

The Company had tensed, drawing their weapons. Andrea leapt to her feet, her heart beginning a rabbit-fast rhythm in her chest.

“Wolves? No, that’s not a wolf,” Bofur said tersely, his eyes wide.

A growl came from the hill above, and the snap of a branch. The Company cried out, turning towards it as a huge beast leapt down the hill. It took down Bifur, but it had no opportunity to kill him; quick as a whip, Thorin lifted his sword and brought it down on the beast’s neck.

Then, another snarl over the first beast’s death throes. Thorin called out to Kili to raise his bow, but the young prince had already loosed an arrow into the eye of the oncoming creature. The beast stumbled and fell, but growled still. Then it was dead, Dwalin’s axe through the base of its skull.

It all happened within five seconds.

Andrea clutched at the straps of her bag. The Company clustered, and the wizards rushed over.

Thorin pulled his sword from the neck of the massive beast with a grunt. He was wielding Orcrist, Andrea realized distantly through her fear.

“Warg scouts!” Thorin looked over his Company. “An Orc-pack can’t be far behind.”

“Orc-pack?” Bilbo exclaimed, but he got no explanation.

Gandalf started towards the Dwarf king, his grey cloaks billowing about him. “Who did you tell about your quest beyond your kin?” he demanded.

“No one,” Thorin answered, squaring his shoulders.

“Who did you tell!” Gandalf’s voice rose with his agitation.

Thorin shook his head. “No one, I swear to you.” He took a breath. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“You are being hunted,” Gandalf replied in a tense voice. His gaze fell on Andrea for a moment.

Dwalin spoke, then. “We need to get out of here,” he growled.

From higher on the hill came Ori’s fearful voice: “The ponies have bolted!”

“I’ll draw them off,” Radagast declared.

Gandalf shook his head roughly. “These are Gundabad wargs, they will outrun you!”

“These are Rhosgobel rabbits!” replied the Brown Wizard. “I’ll lead them on as merry a chase as I can manage.”

From there it was a flurry of motion. Gandalf directed the Company to the edge of the woods while Radagast leapt onto his sled and set off the opposite way. For a time there was only tense silence.

Andrea pressed herself against the pile of boulders shielding them from sight. She looked out over the exposed plains and hills below, littered with stones and rock formations. Her stomach lurched.

Shouts and cries came over the fields, splitting the silence. Radagast’s sled flew over the ridge, followed closely by a group of warg-mounted Orcs. The Orcs shrieked and snarled, and the wargs howled and growled. Too loud, too loud.

Then they were running. Running, running. Andrea’s feet thudded against the hard, stony ground. Sharp rocks bit at her heels and sent shocks up her spine. The cold spring air froze her lungs, and soon Andrea was struggling to breath.

It didn’t take long for her pace to flag.

It was like a deadly game of hide-and-seek tag. The Company fled from rock formation to rock formation, trying to keep out of sight while Radagast led the Orc pack around and around. Each brief pause to let the Orcs race past was far too short for Andrea to catch her breath.

They came to a stop at the base of yet another pile of rocks. Andrea took in a breath of freezing air. Above them, on the rocks, she heard the now-familiar snarl of a warg.

Kili stepped out, an arrow on the string. He loosed on, then another. The warg and its rider crashed to the ground, and the Company fell upon them, silencing their shrieks. But too late, Andrea knew. The howls of the warg and the Orc resounded in her ears.

The howls of the wargs reached them over the hills, far more intent.

“Move!” Gandalf cried. “Run!”

Running, running. Andrea had already spent her stamina in the past few minutes, but fear put new strength in her legs. She was blind to everything but the ground beneath her feet and the back of the Dwarf in front of her. The sword bumped against her hip, bumped, bumped. Her bag bumped against her back, bumped, bumped.

She could barely breathe, could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears.

She heard voices, shouts, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her feet slammed against the hard ground. They ached so much. She needed to stop, needed to rest. Needed to breathe.

A hand wrapped around her upper arm, pulling her to a stop. Andrea stumbled and almost fell.

“Kili!” she heard the person holding her shout. “Shoot them!” Thorin, she realized, somewhere between the icy cold breaths she pulled into her weary lungs.

“We’re surrounded!” cried Fili from somewhere to the left.

Andrea blinked, staring about wildly. The yellow hills seemed endless, speckled with pines and stones. The Company had scattered, each braced with their weapons. And there, the Orcs, mounted on their beasts, coming towards them. One of the Orcs fell, an arrow in his chest.

“Where’s Gandalf!” Dori shouted.

“He’s abandoned us!” Dwalin snarled.

The Orcs pushed further in. They knew the Company was cornered.

Thorin pushed Andrea back. “Hold your ground!” he cried to his Company, brandishing his sword.

The world spun. She couldn’t breath. They weren’t running anymore. She didn’t know how much longer she could stay standing without the forward momentum. Her feet hurt. Her legs shuddered with the effort of holding her up.

“This way, you fools!” came Gandalf’s voice from somewhere behind her.

Andrea stumbled to turn around. Gandalf’s hat disappeared into a crevice at the base of a large stone. She took a step forward and almost fell.

A hand wrapped around her upper arm and dragged her forward. “Quickly, all of you!” Thorin shouted hoarsely, pulling Andrea with him to the crevice. “Gloin, take her!”

A different set of hands took hold of Andrea. The world went dark, and gravity turned upside down. Gravel scraped against her arms as she all but fell down the incline. Her legs buckled when they hit the stone below. The hands pulled her to her feet and aside to the stony wall.

“It’s alright, miss,” Gloin said. Andrea could only wheeze, leaning heavily against the red-bearded Dwarf.

She heard Thorin’s voice over the rushing in her ears. Heard the heavy breathing of the Company, the sound of a body coming down the gravel slope.

Andrea sucked in breath after breath, her vision clearing steadily. She saw Thorin come down the incline, rolling into a crouch. The Company braced themselves, staring up at the entrance of the crevice.

The sound of horns pierced the silence of held-breaths and tense muscles. Bright and loud, ringing through the air. The whistle of arrows and the shrieks of Orcs came down to them. The neighing of horses and the snarls of the wargs. The sound of blades and battle.

A body came over the lip of the crevice. It rolled and came to a halt at the bottom. An Orc, Andrea realized. It didn't move. It looked ugly, twisted.

Thorin stepped forward, pulling the arrow from its chest. He examined the arrowhead, and his lips twisted. “Elves,” he spat, throwing down the arrow. The sentiment swept through the Company in murmurs and growls.

“I can’t see where the pathway leads!” Dwalin’s voice echoed off the stone. It was a pathway, Andrea realized belatedly, not a cave. “Do we follow it or no?”

“Follow it, of course!” declared Bofur.

Andrea followed the Company (she had no choice but to follow them). Her stamina had recovered, but only barely. Each step felt like walking barefoot over glass. Her clothes stuck to her skin, sweaty and disgusting. Her hair fell over her face. She re-tied it as they walked; her arms ached with the effort of holding them up in order to do so.

The passage was claustrophobic. Over their heads, sunlight filtered down into the narrow ravine. Andrea wished for a cane to lean on.

“There’s light ahead,” Dwalin called. The pace of the Company quickened, hurrying Andrea along.

The passage opened at last. Andrea gasped.

There before them lay one of the most beautiful places she’d ever seen. Green lay everywhere, in trees and vines and bushes. The buildings seemed almost built around the trees rather than the trees planted around the buildings. Water spilled from countless pools and streams. And all of it cradled by high mountains, shielding it from the outside world.

“The Valley of Imladris,” Gandalf said proudly. “Here lies the Last Homely House East of the Sea.”

Andrea was ready to collapse; she hadn’t even slept last night with all the fuss over the trolls. None of them had slept, but even Bilbo looked less exhausted than she felt.

Glancing back, she saw Thorin exchanging harsh words with Gandalf. Andrea looked away, taking in the fresh view that was Imladris. The lovely sight couldn't soothe her weariness. She closed her eyes and swayed on her feet.

Her feet hurt so much. They’d swell up the moment she took her boots off. She didn’t know if she’d even be able to walk tomorrow. The reddish darkness behind her eyelids was warm. The sun on her face barely offset the tightness in her lungs. She took another, faintly wheezing breath. She wondered if she’d get sick from all the stress.

She couldn’t really hear anything. It all faded away in favor of the reddish dark behind her eyes. Dozing on one’s feet. What a novel concept.

A hand took hold of her elbow. A big hand, with a firm but gentle grip. She would have gasped and opened her eyes at once, had she not been so tired. She sighed instead, and her eyes opened slowly, eyelids heavy as lead.

Thorin frowned at her. He didn’t release her arm. She realized why when she swayed a little too far left and Thorin tugged her back into balance. “We are going down the mountain, Miss Chen,” he said, his brow furrowed and mouth turned with displeasure.

Andrea wished she had the energy to tease him. Comment on his dislike of Elves, perhaps. But she was so tired. She only nodded.


	9. Chapter 9

It took a while to trek down from the mountainside path and into the valley. The paths were well kept, at least, clear of any loose dirt or grass. In the back of her mind, Andrea wondered if the Elves made an effort to maintain the paths, or if it was some kind of magic that kept the paths clear.

With every moment that passed, Andrea thought she couldn’t get any more tired and was soundly proven wrong. Only desperate stubbornness and Thorin’s unerring grasp on her upper arm kept her from teetering off into the grass.

They had nearly reached the Valley proper when Thorin’s voice reached Andrea’s ears. She’d basically logged off by then, but she made an effort to listen.

“Fili, Kili,” she heard Thorin say. “Take care of her should our wizard be proven wrong.”

“Of course, uncle,” said a voice that really could have been either of the brothers– Andrea didn’t care to figure out which one.

The feeling of dirt turning to stone beneath her feet had Andrea cracking her heavy eyelids open. She didn’t even realize she’d closed them.

“Kili,” Thorin said quietly, and then the hand on Andrea’s arm was switched out for another.

Andrea leaned into Kili’s hold and looked around. They were standing on a sort of platform, seamlessly paved with grey stone. Greenery twined with open-air architecture that rose up out of the valley around them. Behind them stood a bridge that Andrea didn’t remember traversing– god, she must be really out of it. The Company was spread out in a subtly defensive pattern, but Gandalf stood confidently before a stone staircase leading up to a building just like the rest.

“Mithrandir,” called a clear voice. Andrea looked towards it to find a man descending the staircase. But not a Man. He seemed too tall, too graceful.

“Ah! Lindir,” Gandalf exclaimed, quite pleased.

Lindir reached the bottom of the staircase and said something in Elvish that Andrea had no hope of understanding, nor did she remember what the subtitles had said in the movie. The movie. How much had things changed? She was too tired to go over the last few hours and figure that out.

“I must speak with Lord Elrond,” said Gandalf in Westron. Or English. Or whatever.

The Elf –Lindir– made a mildly apologetic face. “My Lord Elrond is not here.”

“Not here?” Gandalf sounded disgruntled and disapproving. “Where is he?”

The answer came providentially in the form of a horn blast, loud and bright, the same one that had rung out before the Orcs were slaughtered. Then came the sound of hooves on stone, drawing ever nearer. Andrea hardly had the time to look down the bridge and see the oncoming riders before Thorin called out in a language Andrea just barely recognized as Khuzdul.

“Close ranks!” Thorin shouted in Westron.

Andrea found herself dragged into the middle of the Company, pressed in on all sides by the weight of thirteen Dwarves and a single Hobbit who looked incredibly perplexed at the whole situation.

About as alert as her body could muster, Andrea watched as the Elves and their grey-white horses surrounded the Company, going about it in concentric circles as the horses snorted and the Dwarves growled and the Elves stared aloofly.

At last, the horses came to a halt. One of the Elves called out, “Gandalf!”

“Lord Elrond.” Gandalf took a step forward and bowed, sweeping back his grey cloaks. He spoke in Elvish, and the Lord Elrond responded in kind, dismounting from his horse.

Lord Elrond looked absolutely nothing like Agent Smith. He looked too beautiful to be manly, and too handsome to be effeminate. The grace with which he moved in his long purple robes was astounding. He embraced Gandalf like a Man, though, his armor clinking just so.

“Strange,” said Lord Elrond, “For Orcs to come so close to our borders.” He held up a crude looking blade, undoubtedly taken from an Orc corpse. He handed it off to Lindir, saying, “Something, or someone, has drawn them near.” He turned a nearly wry expression on Gandalf, who hummed apologetically.

“That may have been us,” Gandalf admitted, looking towards the cluster of the Company.

Andrea, being a head taller than all the Dwarves surrounding her, had the misfortune of standing under Lord Elrond’s piercing gaze. His eyes fell to Thorin, however, when the Dwarf King stepped out from his Company. The horses of the Elves fidgeted, but Lord Elrond dismissed them and their riders with a flick of his wrist.

“Welcome, Thorin, son of Thrain,” Lord Elrond said as his men rode away, the horses’ hooves hard on the stone.

“I do not believe we have met,” said Thorin, and though Andrea couldn’t see anything of him but his back, she could imagine the wary expression on his face.

Lord Elrond’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You have your grandfather’s bearing,” he said. “I knew King Thror, when he ruled Under the Mountain.”

“Indeed?” And here Andrea heard the beginnings of a sneer in Thorin’s voice. “He made no mention of you.”

Elrond Half-Elven seemed to laugh –little more than a brief huff– and he spoke at length in Elvish. Behind Lord Elrond, Lindir bowed his head, turned, and made his way up the stairs.

Perhaps due to their lesser stature, the Company had not seen Lindir accept what was clearly an instruction from the Elf Lord.

“What is he saying!” Gloin cried out indignantly over the growing grumbles of the Dwarves. “Does he offer us insult!?” The protests of the Company crescendoed.

“No, Master Gloin,” Gandalf said, silencing them all. “He is offering you food, rest, and recuperation.”

“I believe it is the latter two your lady companion needs the most,” Lord Elrond said. “And a healer besides.”

All eyes turned to Thorin, who looked over his Company and glared long at Andrea. Andrea just felt tired.

“We have no need of your healers,” Thorin said after a few moments, “But accept your offer of shelter.” It probably pained him to say as much, but he hid it well.

They were settled in one of the wings of Elrond’s own household by Lindir, who had initially offered Andrea a room in a different wing and was soundly rebuffed by the Dwarves. A few insults may have been involved on the Dwarves’ part. Andrea didn’t mind it– she would rather be with people she found familiar, especially in uncertain surroundings.

At some point an Elleth showed up and offered to lead Andrea to the baths.

“Please,” Andrea almost gasped. The Elleth smiled demurely and showed Andrea to a tiled room with a tub set in the floor that was already filled with near-steaming water. She pointed out the soaps and the oils for washing hair.

“Take your time,” the Elleth said in that strange sort of lilt that Andrea was beginning to realize all Elves spoke with. “I’ve asked that some clothes be provided for you, and your own washed.” She smiled. “You will feel better in clothing that has not seen so many days of travel.”

“Thank you.” Andrea hesitated. “Have you anywhere I can…” she bit her lip. “I wear a cup to contain my… bleeding, but I need to empty it.” She’d been wearing it for hours now and it was probably close to over-full, though she didn’t know what the limits were.

The Elleth smiled sympathetically. “I’ll get a bucket and cloth,” she said. She left, and returned soon after with the items, the bucket full to the brim with hot water. The Elleth carried it as though it weighed nothing. She set bucket and cloth down beside the bathtub and retreated to the doorway. She gestured to a woven screen by the wall. “You can set this up near the door and put your dirtied clothes behind it to be taken away. You’ll find others in their place.”

“Thank you,” Andrea repeated. The Elleth smiled again and left, leaving Andrea well and truly alone.

Andrea stripped down and set up the screen, putting her clothes behind it. Then she performed the bloody task of emptying her cup and cleaning it. There was less blood than she was expecting– maybe her period was almost over already. At this point she couldn’t even remember when it had started.

Getting into the bath was the ultimate bliss. She hadn’t felt so wonderfully warm since she’d woken up in Middle Earth. It was a struggle not to simply fall asleep. Andrea scrubbed herself down with proper soaps and a real washcloth, cleaned her hair with a sweet smelling sort-of oil. She didn’t know what it was, but it left her scalp feeling the freshest it had in ages.

Mustering up the courage to leave the water took a long time, but at last Andrea forced herself to leave it. The cool air of the room shocked her into wakefulness. The bath left Andrea feeling cleaner and better, and she felt energy seeping back into her limbs. She dried herself with a nearby towel and combed out her hair with the provided comb.

Clearly the Imladris Elves, at least, didn’t skimp as hosts.

Behind the woven screen was a folded cloth garment and a pair of boots, stockings, and undergarments. The boots came as a surprise –Andrea was expecting slippers or something, that was an Elvish thing to wear, wasn’t it?– but not an unpleasant one.

Retreating to a corner, Andrea first pulled on the underclothes before spreading the garment out. It was a reddish-brown dress, and a pretty one at that. Simple though, thankfully, for all that the quality of the cloth was better than Andrea had seen of late.

Andrea slipped it over her head and let the fabric fall. The skirt was a little too long, and the neckline uncomfortably low, but it was comfortable and Andrea found herself content with it. There was a belt available to cinch about her waist.

Pulling on the stockings and boots (which fit well enough) Andrea left the silent refuge of the bathing room. The Elleth who had taken Andrea there was waiting outside, and she smiled kindly.

“Come, Lord Elrond has had food prepared for you and your companions.”

Andrea followed behind the Elleth, braiding her damp hair and tying it off with the cord she had been using thus far.

She’d been right about her feet swelling up. Now that she was walking she began to feel it, as well as an ache in her thighs and calves that the bath had not soothed away.

At last Andrea reached the others. Most of the Company was seated at a large table in the center of the… veranda? Gazebo? Andrea had never been very good with architecture. Either way, the open build provided for a good amount of fresh air and a lovely view of the Valley.

The Elleth did not lead Andrea there, though, but instead to the smaller table a short distance away, at which Gandalf, Elrond, and Thorin were seated.

Gandalf rose like the courteous old man he was and pulled out the fourth chair for Andrea. She sat down obligingly and pulled the chair in herself.

Lord Elrond turned a welcoming expression on her, saying, “I have declined your companions to tell me of you beyond your deeds, that I might ask you myself. What is your name?”

“Andrea Chen,” Andrea replied, pulling at the skirt of her borrowed dress. She’d forgotten what it was like to wear skirts.

“And how came you to be in the company of one such as Mithrandir?”

Andrea had a few responses to that, and chose the least biting one. “We met through discourse over a book. The rest is history.” Albeit recent history.

Elrond’s eyes flashed with a knowing light. “So the company of wizards is as cryptic as the wizard himself.”

“Maybe so.” Andrea looked down at the food on the table. There was meat, and greens, and bread, and fruit. Andrea felt torn between two intrusive urges: stuff it all down her throat or sweep it all off onto the floor.

She was really tired.

“Eat, Miss Chen,” Lord Elrond said, lifting an imperial hand. “You look refreshed, but color is still wanting in your cheeks.”

If she’d had only the Dwarves for company, Andrea would have dug right in. In the presence of Elves, however, she held back. This was why she always hated eating at fancy restaurants; she felt too out of place.

When she reached to pull some greens onto her plate, she caught Thorin’s eye. He quirked his brow subtly, a clear question in his gaze: Are you well?

Andrea hitched a short nod.

“So then, Mithrandir,” Elrond said, as if continuing a conversation Andrea’s coming had interrupted. “You mentioned unusual treasures you found on your way here.”

“Ah!” Gandalf nodded. “Indeed so, my friend.” He turned aside and took the sheath of Glamdring from his belt, gesturing for Thorin to do likewise. “Tell me what you think of this, for I find that it perplexes me.”

Elrond accepted the blade and held it carefully and familiarly. He pulled it a few inches from its sheath, looking over the blade with a keen eye. “So you have found Glamdring, I see. The Foehammer, and sword of the King of Gondolin. I cannot say when it was lost, but it is well that you found it. I can imagine no better master.” He handed it back to Gandalf, who muttered thanks.

Elrond turned expectant eyes on Thorin. After a moment, Thorin reluctantly presented Orcrist. Andrea admired the sword for the short time it was in Thorin’s hold before Lord Elrond plucked it up and examined it. His light, Elvish fingers danced over the curve of the scabbard, and wrapped about the hilt to draw the blade out just so.

The sword looked no less beautiful in the hands of Elrond– indeed its grace seemed more fitting in his Elvish hands than Thorin’s rough, Dwarven ones. Thorin looked on Elrond with a wary jealousy. For all he had protested taking it at first, Andrea thought wryly, Thorin wanted the sword now.

“This is Orcrist,” said Lord Elrond. “The Goblin-cleaver.”

Thorin’s gaze snapped to Andrea. She met it, and hoped her panic didn’t show in her eyes. Elrond spoke over their silent staring contest, saying, “It was a famous blade, once. May it serve you well, Thorin, son of Thrain, and may you wield it truly.”

Thorin accepted Orcrist with a diplomatic nod, casting one last unreadable look at Andrea.

God, she’d fucked up.

“How came you by relics such as these?” Elrond asked Gandalf.

“We found them in a Troll-hoard on the Great East Road,” Gandalf explained. “Shortly before we were ambushed by Orcs.”

Elrond glanced at Thorin before directing his words to Gandalf. “And what were you doing on the Great East Road?” he asked, a wry tint to his voice.

Gandalf looked abruptly chastised. For a moment, Andrea felt as thought she’d missed some subtext, before she remembered that the Company’s Quest was not greatly encouraged, being entirely fruitless and incredibly dangerous.

Thorin pushed his chair back and stood. “Excuse me,” he said. He half-turned away, then paused. “Miss Chen, will you walk with me? I won’t keep you from your dinner for long.”

Andrea didn’t much look forward to sitting at the same table as an old Elf and an even older Maia. “Of course,” she said, pushing back her chair and standing. Her feet ached in protest, but she ignored them, walking with Thorin out of the open-air hall.

Thorin said nothing for a while. Andrea took the lead at one point, following the sunlit halls until she found a garden overlooking one of Rivendell’s many waterfalls. She sat down on a bench to rest her feet, undoing her braid so her hair could dry properly.

“I don’t think I’ll be heading back to dinner,” she said once it became clear Thorin wouldn’t start the conversation. “Your Company was looking restless. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve gone and done something by now.”

Thorin looked out over the valley below, his hands clasped behind his back. He struck a noble picture, especially in the yellow light of the waning day. Orcrist was slung from his hip, a striking but not unattractive contrast to his Dwarvish profile.

“How did you know what the sword’s name was?” he asked after a dreadfully long pause.

Andrea sighed, leaning back on her hands. “It was only a guess. I read a description of it once in a book– seeing the sword made me think of that. I didn’t think it was actually Orcrist. I didn’t even know Orcrist was real.” All technically true.

Thorin turned away from the beautiful view, glowering at Andrea. “You know more than you say. I have thought as much since the moment I saw you. That Gandalf will not elaborate on your purpose here has only increased my suspicions.”

He took a step forward, resplendent against the light of the setting sun. “So I ask you, why are you here?”

Andrea pursed her lips, forming her words carefully. On the inside, she was a breath away from panicking. Only determination not to show her fear to Thorin kept her from succumbing.

“You are right when you believe I know more than I say I do,” she said slowly. “Gandalf… he chose me as he did Bilbo, to join your Company.”

“For what purpose?” Thorin demanded in the impatient tone of a leader who was wont to get the answers he asked for.

Andrea pulled up her legs and crossed them under herself, bracing her elbows on her knees. The skirt of her dress flowed down onto the leaf strewn ground. “Gandalf… does not have the gift of foresight, and neither to I. But there are… omens. They tell of a danger to the line of Durin– to yourself and your kin. So Gandalf… called on me.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “To what, protect the line of Durin? You, a woman who cannot protect even herself?”

Andrea refused to feel insulted. “Wizards work in mysterious ways.”

The Dwarf King let out a huff. “Indeed,” he muttered. He frowned at the ground for a time, then said, “I refused to allow you into my Company because you are a woman unable to protect herself. Our path grows more treacherous once we go through the Misty Mountains.” His gaze flicked to a row of white-tipped peaks past the cusp of the Valley. “I would ask that you stay here, where you are safe.

“But…” He paused. “You risked your life for my Company, though you are not a part of it. Loyalty is in short supply, especially on a Quest such as this. If you wish to, I would have you join my Company.”

Andrea stared at Thorin for a moment. She didn’t know how he’d reached that conclusion. Her gaze slipped past him to the line of mountains. She thought of the goblins teeming within them.

“I need time to think,” she said at last.

Thorin nodded. “My Company will stay no more than a few days. I’ll have Balin write up a contract for you– sign it if you wish.” And then he turned and walked away, his fur-lined coat sweeping along behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn’t until the next morning that Andrea remembered the map and its moon-runes. She couldn’t find it in her to regret missing out on the discovery (doubtless Gandalf would have included her) given that she’d gotten more hours of sleep than she had in weeks. And in a real bed at that- the mattress had felt almost too soft.

She put back on the clothing she’d been given to wear and took a tentative step out of her room. No clock was in sight, leaving Andrea to guess at the time as she traversed the empty halls. Nearly noon, she thought, judging by the angle of the light.

The few elves she saw paid her no mind. Andrea made her way deeper into Lord Elrond’s household, which turned out to be bigger than she’d thought it would be. Staircases were everywhere, all smooth stone, and a multitude of windows allowed for sunlight and fresh air in lieu of lamps. She looked out over the Valley every now and then, taking in the sight of the idyllic Elven haven– too idyllic, she thought at times.

As she wandered, Andrea tried to remember what the moon-runes on the map had said. Durin’s Day when the thrush knocks, right? Easy enough to remember, though she had no idea when Durin’s Day was– October, maybe?

Andrea stepped into a stone-paved courtyard. The furthest side was open entirely, framed by carved stone and overlooking the Valley below. Andrea looked out, following the trails of paths, waterfalls, and gardens.

Here was as good a place as any to think.

She sat down on the sun-warmed stone at the edge. The sheer drop down towards the green and buildings below sent a thrill of fear through her. The sun dappled through the greenery overhead, casting a shadowed pattern over the skirt of her borrowed dress. Andrea smoothed out the light fabric, tracing the subtle embroidery with her fingers.

Her hours of sleep had given no answer to the question of whether or not to accept Thorin’s offer. She still felt… torn.

She shouldn’t have to risk her life for these people. If what Gandalf said was true, and Thorin and his kins’ deaths would not truly affect the grand scheme of things, then why bother? Why risk changing the whole story just to save three men’s lives?

Her thoughts spiralled over and over. Why care? Why try? It didn’t even matter in the end, right? It was all just a story. These people weren’t even real, they were just characters in a fairytale.

Andrea had almost convinced herself of this last fact when a voice came from behind her.

“Are you one of my father’s guests?” It was a light voice, a bright voice. A child’s voice.

Andrea turned around, pulling away from the edge as she did so. There, not two meters away, was a boy, maybe eight years old. His head couldn't have reached any higher than Andrea’s chest. Large, dark eyes stared out of a round, youthful face framed by tousled brown hair. His hair covered his ears, but Andrea found she had no doubt as to his race: this was a child of Man.

It took a moment for Andrea to realize what the boy had said. “Oh! Oh, yes, I am.”

The boy nodded. “You’re the woman, then? Lindir told me there were thirteen Dwarves and three non-Dwarves.”

Andrea smiled. “I think that should be obvious.”

The boy smiled back, wide and mischievous. “So you are, then?”

Andrea couldn’t help but laugh. The sight of a child made her forget the winding dilemma that had been plaguing her moments before. She got up from the ground, brushing off her skirt. “My name is Andrea Chen,” she said. Then, with a bow, she offered an, “At your service.”

“Estel, son of Elrond, at yours.” The boy bowed in reply. He peeked up through the curls falling over his eyes and said, “I think you were supposed to curtsy, though.”

Estel. Andrea struggled to keep her surprise from her face as she said, “Well, I was never taught proper etiquette.”

Estel. The Elven name given to Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Gondor. The man who would one day join the Fellowship of the Ring, would hunt after orcs with an Elf and a Dwarf, would claim his throne. Would do many countless things in the decades before he died.

Here he stood before her, a boy who didn’t even know his heritage. That had been how it went, right? Aragorn hadn’t known who his ancestors were until he was an adult.

“Are you hungry?” Estel asked. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Andrea shook herself from her thoughts. “I haven’t even had breakfast, actually.”

Estel smiled in a manner too reminiscent of Elrond. “Then we must remedy that!” He held out a small, soft hand. “I’ll show you to the kitchens– I know the best ways to steal from the pantries, you know.”

Andrea wondered if the Elves only let him think that. Children were precious, especially to a race to whom children were also rare.

Reaching out, Andrea took Estel’s hand. “Lead on, then, Estel, son of Elrond.”

The boy smiled, bright and shining, and pulled her back into the house.

The kitchens, though far cleaner than anything one would find in a Man’s household, were as full as a kitchen aught to be. The Elves there smiled and turned their heads away as Estel pulled Andrea along through the tiled rooms, behind cabinets and stoves in a winding, hidden path. Andrea heard the Mission Impossible theme in the back of her mind.

Entertaining a child was always fun. Being able to see, for a moment, through the open eyes of youth; the way everything was an adventure, every obstacle a monster to be vanquished with sword and shield. Estel stole a plate of buns from a countertop and hid the bounty under his shirt. He stuffed berries into his mouth when an Elf passed by with a bowl of them, and performed an impressive roll from one place to the next in search of the pastries he swore he could smell.

Andrea followed close behind, obeying the boy’s every order. She ducked when he told her to, took what he gave her to hold, and whispered furtive reports of oncoming kitchen-staff.

Once they had picked the kitchens clean of worthy treasures, Estel led the way to another open courtyard. This one was lower in the Valley, more level with the many fountains and waterfalls. Vines and green enclosed the stone pillars, crafting a bower about them. They spread out their stolen goods on a cloth taken off a rack in the kitchens.

The sound of life and water came from all around. Wind brushed against their skin, whisking away the sweat from their adventures. Andrea thought she heard voices over the sound of the water– perhaps the Company was out and about. She hadn’t seen any of them so far.

“You’re very different from my mother,” Estel said around a mouth full of sweet honey-bun.

Andrea swallowed her bite of strawberry-jam cookie. “How so?” she asked.

Estel shrugged. “She doesn’t laugh as much as you do. She’s very lovely, though, the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m sure she is, if she has such a handsome son.”

The boy smiled, his dark eyes shining. “I think I like you, Miss Chen,” he said.

“Call me Andrea.” She returned the smile. “No one else has been allowed to call me that yet, you know, so you’re the first.”

“No one? Not even your Dwarves?” Estel tilted his head quizzically, boundless curiosity flashing in his eyes.

Andrea laughed. “They aren’t my Dwarves. And no, none of them call me Andrea.”

“Why not?”

She paused, brow furrowing. “Well, I haven’t asked them to.”

Estel put a blueberry in his mouth and said, “But they’re your friends, right? And friends don’t need titles when they talk to one another.”

Andrea felt as though something had hitched in her mind. “Maybe so,” she said slowly, trying to figure out her own confusion over the issue.

Estel sat forward eagerly. “Why do you travel with Dwarves? My father tells me they are solitary, and they don’t like to mingle with outsiders.”

“Well…” Andrea grasped for an answer to give that wasn’t an outright lie.

“Are you married to one of them?” Estel asked innocently.

That startled a laugh from her, which grew until Andrea was almost gasping for breath. Estel laughed as well, the bright peal of his voice ringing out like a song. It sounded so pure that Andrea felt tears cling to her lashes, though she didn’t know why.

“What’s going on here?” Thorin’s voice struck a deep contrast to the echoes of Estel’s laughter, like a cello to a tinkling bell. His tone was less demanding than his words as he took a step into their little haven, glancing over the food on the cloth and the boy sitting with Andrea.

“This is Estel, son of Elrond,” Andrea said, still smiling wide. She looked at the boy and said, waving to Thorin, “And this is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain.”

Estel scrambled to his feet and bowed hurriedly. “At your service!” he gasped, his face alight with fascination.

Thorin’s stony expression melted, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Sweeping back his fur-lined coat, the Dwarf King bowed. “At your service,” Thorin said. “I see you have gathered a rich feast for yourselves.”

“We stole it from the kitchens,” said Estel proudly.

“Oh? You must be stealthy indeed to have gone under the noses of Elves.”

Estel smiled. He paused a moment, and then words spilled out of him as though from a geyser. “Is it true what they say? Do Dwarves see in the dark? Do you spring from the ground fully formed? Do you hear stone like Elves hear trees?”

Thorin drew nearer, standing by a pillar wound all over with vines. “I’m afraid I cannot answer, Estel, son of Elrond,” said the Dwarf King. “Dwarves keep secrets as jealously as Elves do.”

Estel looked no less excited for having been denied his answers. “We were just speaking of why Andrea is among you,” he said. “My father says that Dwarves do not easily allow an outsider to join them.”

“Your father is correct. But Dwarven secrets must be kept, and I cannot tell you why she is in my Company.” Thorin’s eyes shone with more humor than Andrea had ever seen in him before. He looked almost indulgent, in fact, a near-smile turning his perpetually-scowling lips.

“Then will you tell me her status? Is she your wife? She laughed when I asked her that, you know.” Estel’s cheeky smile belied his innocent words.

Andrea snorted inelegantly, meeting Thorin’s eye with a wry smile. The Dwarf raised a brow.

“It was your laughter that gave away your hidden feast,” said he. “But if you must know, she is our storyteller.”

Estel gasped, turning on Andrea. “Tell me a story!” he demanded, with all the petulance of a child who had wanted for nothing in all his life. His small hands clenched in eager fists, and he bared his teeth in a wide grin. Andrea had neither the will nor the heart to deny him.

“I will tell you a story,” she conceded. “If the King of Durin’s Folk would deign to sit and dine with us.”

Thorin grumbled, but it was all for show as he sat down and obligingly took of the berries Estel pointed out to him. Then they both looked at Andrea expectantly. She ignored Thorin and met Estel’s eyes, searching for… something. She wasn’t sure what.

“Once,” she began after a few moments to gather her thoughts, “There was a lost king. But it is not right to say he lost his kingdom– rather, his kingdom had lost him. For many years ago, one of his forefathers made a grave mistake.”

Estel was entranced. Andrea didn’t look at Thorin.

“Many, many decades before this king was born, another king grasped for himself a force which would give great power to any who wielded it. And though this king was told to abandon this power, to destroy it, he did not. His greed and lust for power doomed him, and his descendents. And so the kingdom lost its kings for many generations, and not one could reclaim the throne– the time was not right.

“But then,” Andrea smiled, “There came our lost king. He was a mighty warrior, a skilled hunter. His hands held the gift of healing. He was told, when he came of age, ‘It is time, you must go and claim your throne.’

“But he didn’t want to be king. He was afraid, you see. Afraid that he too would fall to the greed of his forefathers.” Andrea felt the weight of Thorin’s gaze. “But that was how the people around him knew that he would be a good king. An arrogant man is not afraid he will be arrogant. Only a humble man fears such things. But the lost king refused to see it, for he was as stubborn as he was wise.

“And then, the power that doomed his forefathers resurfaced. The lost king joined the company which would ferry it to its destruction. They traveled over mountains and plains and rivers, and all the while, it whispered to him the same words it had whispered to his ancestor.

“But his path was not the same as that of the power and its bearer. No, his path led him away, over the lands of the Horse Lords and through the Paths of the Dead. A long, long journey that wound its way through Middle Earth and down to his kingdom. There he saw it, white stone and high towers. His kingdom opened her arms and welcomed him into her war-torn heart. With his hands he healed her, with his words he bolstered her. His people recognized him and called out to their healer-king.

“He took his place on the throne. He bowed his head and took the circlet of the king, accepted his birthright. And he ruled justly and fairly, for all the days of his life. The greed he feared did not seize him, and no darkness touched the land under his gracious eye.

“He was a good king, and he rose above the sins of his forefathers.” She fell silent at last, her throat dry. Thorin’s presence was like a heavy heat, like stepping too close to a fire.

Estel clapped, his eyes shining. “I love it!” he cried. “You must tell me this one again, tomorrow!”

Andrea shook her head. “Some stories can only be told once,” she said. She could only hope that Estel would not remember this when he was older, decades of experience behind him, his childhood long past.

Thorin spoke, his voice low and soothing. Thunder during a rainstorm. “Your stories grow more poignant, Miss Chen,” said the Dwarf King. “I believe they have more meaning than one first suspects.”

“Which is why I only tell them once, and leave the meaning to be discovered by the people I tell them to.” Andrea met Thorin’s eyes. They stared at one another for a short moment, some conflict flashing between them that Andrea didn’t fully understand.

Thorin stood suddenly, brushing dust and leaves from his clothes. “Thank you for the feast, Estel, son of Elrond, and for the story, Miss Chen.” He bowed to the boy and nodded to Andrea, then left.

Andrea watched him leave the green-bound bower. A rustle pulled her gaze back to Estel, still bright-eyed after the story she had told. Andrea took a breath and put a smile on her face.

“Come,” she said. “These pastries will not enter our stomachs by themselves.”

oOo

Estel stuck to Andrea’s side for the whole day. The sun was low in the sky by the time they finally found the Dwarves, who were all instantly enchanted by the boy.

The Dwarves had claimed a veranda for themselves. When dinnertime arrived, they employed Estel’s eager assistance in acquiring food. Andrea smiled wide as Bombur, Bofur, Nori, and Estel tramped back into the courtyard with arms laden with food. They spread it out on a table that Dori and Dwalin had gotten from somewhere, and they dug in.

Andrea ate more than she had last night. She ate until she felt full to bursting, and didn’t worry about the grease on her fingers or the way her hair fell from its braid. She laughed with the rest, and joked, and didn’t look at Thorin when the Dwarf King finally joined them.

Estel’s laugh acted as a balm to all their weary hearts. The Dwarves did their very best to please the boy, for want of hearing that bright sound. No child had ever been loved so much or so quickly, Andrea thought, watching Kili argue playfully with Estel over bow techniques.

Eventually, though, things wound down. A protesting Estel was taken away by an Elleth to be put to bed. The Company slowly trickled away to their beds until only Fili, Kili, and Andrea remained about the embers of the fire. Thorin and Balin walked and spoke in low voices, just close enough that Andrea could see their silhouettes.

Fili left for a few moments, then returned with two fiddles in hand. He and Kili tuned them now, plucking at the strings and tightening or loosening here and there.

“Isn’t it a bit late?” Andrea asked.

Kili smiled cheekily. “It’s never too late for music, Miss Chen. Any requests?”

Andrea shook her head. “Whatever you like.”

The brothers conferred for a moment, then set their fiddles on their shoulders. What came from their bows was not a fast fiddler’s tune, but rather something Andrea expected more from a violin (though violins and fiddles looked exactly the same to her eyes). It took her a moment to recognize the solemn tune: it was the Song of the Misty Mountains.

Andrea didn’t remember anything beyond the first verse. Still, as the brothers ran their bows over the strings and pressed with their calloused fingers, Andrea found she did not need to remember the words; she felt them somewhere in the depths of her chest, a hint of what she’d felt that first night in Bilbo Baggins’s Hobbit-hole.

Neither Fili nor Kili sang, only pushed and pulled at their wooden bows in perfect harmony, drawing into being the gold of Erebor, the life in the vaulted halls, the rush of fire.

Andrea closed her eyes and let the music wash over her. Her cheeks flushed, and the hair on her arms stood on end. Something tightened in her chest, between a sob and a scream.

The song wound to its end, a high, pale note on Kili’s instrument.

Andrea took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. Fili and Kili stared into the remains of the fire, looking just as confused as Andrea felt.

“Why that one?” she asked, quietly so as not to break the spell. The notes lingered in the air and thrummed through her breastbone.

Fili set his fiddle across his knees. “We’ve never seen it, you know,” he said. “Everyone else has, except Ori. They all tell us stories, but… it’s not the same.”

“We’re going to cross the Misty Mountains soon,” Kili murmured. “We’ll be nearer than any Dwarf has been in decades.”

Andrea pursed her lips nervously. “What’s it like? What do they say?”

Fili smiled slightly. “You heard the song.” But then he elaborated. “They say there are greater halls than any other Dwarven kingdom. Pillars so tall you can’t see their tops. There are chambers untouched by pick or hand, wrought by the Mountain itself.”

“They say that carved into the pillars of the forward hall is the history of the Dwarven race,” Kili said softly. “From the moment Mahal breathed life and gave name to stone. The stone of the Mountain itself lives beneath the hands of a Dwarf, teaching him where to carve and where to lift his tools.”

“They say that to look down into the mines is like looking at the night sky.” Fili’s voice was hushed, as though speaking of some holy sight. “Lit with the faraway lanterns of the miners like stars. The jewels and stones they bring up are each like a star themselves, willingly crafted and refined to their most beautiful state.”

And so it went. They each spoke in turn, crafting an image that Andrea could see clearly in her mind’s eye: the kingdom of Erebor, carved and built into the heart of the Lonely Mountain, a wealth of riches and people. And as they spoke, Andrea felt their longing. Behind their eyes was a mourning unlike that of Thorin and the older dwarves; Fili and Kili had never seen the Lonely Mountain in all its glory, filled to the brim with life.

And they never would.

But they looked so alive as they spoke. Despite the darkness, they glowed brighter than the fading embers of the fire. Speaking of a sight they’d never seen, some glorious vision bordering on religious, Fili and Kili were transformed.

They seemed so real. Real people, sitting in front of her, their eyes alight. She loved them, suddenly, with a burning passion. It rose up in her, fierce and shocking, almost violent. It felt like something a mother would feel for her child, or an older sibling for the younger. She wanted to take them in her arms and hold them close. She wanted to see their dreams fulfilled.

Would they die each alone, separated by Azog’s cruel hand? Or would they die defending Thorin, out on the battlefield.

Andrea wished she had never spoken to them. She wished they were still only characters to her.

“Are you alright, Miss Chen?” Kili leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “You look upset, suddenly.”

She took a breath. It filled her lungs, cold and cool. There was a dampness in her chest, as though she’d been crying. And maybe she had, somewhere deep inside, been shedding tears, because she knew what path she was going to choose now.

“Call me Andrea, please,” she said through the tightness in her throat. “We’re friends, after all.”

They both smiled. “Andrea, then,” said Fili. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Andrea shook her head and stood. “I’m fine. Excuse me, I need to find Balin. There’s something I have to discuss with him.”


	11. Chapter 11

The next day was spent much like the previous; exploring the Last Homely House and eating their fill and restoring their provisions and equipment. Andrea got her own clothes back, as well as another set, newer and cleaner, which she was told was a gift from Lady Gilraen, Estel’s mother.

“She thanks you for indulging her son,” said the Elleth who handed the clothes over– the same one who had shown Andrea to the baths two days ago.

“It would be difficult not to indulge him,” Andrea replied, receiving a smile in response.

The clothing was not unlike the set she already owned: trousers, stockings, a tunic, boots, gloves, even a fresh, new cloak. Far too generous a gift for simply giving attention to a child. They were cut from cloth woven in the Elvish way, but sewn in a style that was unmistakably Mannish. Andrea was grateful for that; she did not want to stand out by wearing Elvish clothing.

They prepared to leave the next morning, before the sun rose, and with it the Elvish household. Andrea dressed in her new clothes, pulled on her new boots, and packed away all her things. The sky was dark, still, though the horizon was beginning to lighten. She made her way out into the main hall, where the Dwarves had gathered, sorting out their things so that each carried his own load.

Andrea accepted the wrapped, dried meats and fruits that she was to carry in her pack. She squatted on her heels, fitting the food into her pack. A familiar coat broached the edge of her vision, and she sat back to meet Thorin’s gaze.

“You are coming with us, then,” he said, expression unreadable.

“I think that should be obvious.”

They hadn’t spoken since Balin had written up Andrea’s contract, and she, Thorin, and Balin had signed it. The previous day had been spent entertaining Estel, with the aid of Fili, Kili, and Ori, who answered the boy’s questions far more readily than Thorin had. Fili even employed Estel’s aid in sharpening the sword Andrea had been given in the troll-hole.

“He’s good at it,” Fili had said, wearing a wide, indulgent smile.

Thorin grunted and cut a brief, curt nod. “Good,” he said enigmatically, before turning on his heel and walking away.

After making sure all straps were fastened and no sock or glove had been left behind, the Company set out. They were surprisingly silent, making their way along the bridges and pathways of Rivendell.

They had nearly reached the bridge which would take them across to the valley’s edge when a voice called out, soft but insistent, “Wait!”

The Company halted in its tracks. Andrea turned to see Estel running towards them, barefoot, still in his nightclothes. In the watery light of early morning, he looked almost like a ghost, or an angel.

Andrea stepped out to meet him, stumbling slightly when he threw himself at her. Small arms wrapped tightly about her waist, clinging.

“You’re leaving!” Estel looked up at Andrea with large, watery eyes. “Without saying goodbye!”

Andrea glanced back at Thorin, who scowled but nodded. Extricating herself from Estel’s arms, Andrea knelt down, slightly unsteady for the weight of her pack.

“I am sorry, Estel,” she said, taking both the boy’s hands in her own. “I thought you would still be sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Estel looked past her at the Company. “Why do you leave so secretly?” he asked.

“The hospitality of your father’s house is too rich for us. If we stay any longer, we may never leave at all!” Andrea smiled, and received a shy but bright smile in return. She sighed, and squeezed Estel’s hands. “You remember the story I told you, Estel?”

“About the lost king?”

“Yes. Thorin is also a lost king, you see, and the time is right for him to get his kingdom back. But it is going to be very dangerous, and some people, like your father, don’t want him to risk- to risk trying.”

Those small, soft hands tightened in hers, and Estel frowned. “And that’s why this has to be a secret?”

Andrea nodded. “Yes. But I won’t ask you to lie to anyone. If anyone asks you where we are, you can tell them that we’re gone.”

Esel nodded, his expression too solemn for such a young face. “Will I ever see you again?” he asked.

Her mouth twisted into a small, sad smile. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, anymore.”

Estel’s lips pursed miserably, and tears beaded in his eyes as he threw his arms about Andrea’s neck. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered fervently.

Andrea returned the embrace for as long as she could, but soon she had to pull the boy away. Pressing a kiss to his wind-swept curls, she said, “Be a good boy, Estel. Go on, go back to bed.”

Wiping his eyes, Estel turned despondently away. Andrea stood, turning back to the Company. Thorin nodded and waved for them to continue on, on and on up to the cliffs and stone that embraced the Valley.

She looked back only once, and saw Estel staring after them, a small, pale figure. Andrea set her gaze resolutely on Nori’s back, and hoped that Estel would forget her.

It didn’t take long to get back into the rhythms of life on the road. Without ponies, they were stuck traveling on foot; Andrea soon learned endurance. Their days were spent more vigilant, and their nights with more secrecy. The orc attack had left Thorin more wary than usual, which was saying quite a lot. And always, the white-tipped peaks of the Misty Mountains, laid out before them, growing closer every day.

Andrea spent as much time as she could trying to learn how to use a sword. Dwalin and Fili were eager teachers, though the latter was less experienced in the ways of passing on wisdom.

Her whole body ached from walking, from sleeping on the hard ground, and from being beaten black and blue by the flat of Dwalin’s blade. He’d recently judged her ready to learn how to combat an opponent using an axe– a judgement that Andrea greatly disagreed with. She could just barely stumble her way through parries and deflections, and offensive moves were only just within her range of skill.

“Your only advantage,” Dwalin said, standing tall with a sword in one hand and an axe in the other, “Is that you can be fast if you try. But you aren’t trying.”

“I am trying!” Andrea sucked in a lungful of cold air, her sword heavy in her hand.

Dwalin shook his head. “You’re still too intimidated of your own weapon. It’s not a tool, it’s an extension of your own arm.”

“God, that’s so cliche.” Andrea sagged for a short moment before gathering herself, resettling her grip about the hilt of her sword. “Maybe I should just cut off my arm and replace it with a sword.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Dwalin grunted, his eyes flashing with wry humor. Then he struck.

Fighting Dwalin was like fighting a heavily armored whirlwind. Andrea hadn’t a chance in hell of winning, or even losing with dignity. Dwalin didn’t hold back, but he always stopped short of hitting, and every successful parry was met with a nod and a few seconds’ reprieve. Still, Andrea felt rather like a mouse being batted about by a cat.

Dwalin’s sword came down and, instead of deflecting it as she’d been taught to, Andrea blocked it. Pain lanced down from her wrist to her shoulder, and her hand release the sword at once. The sword fell to the grass, metal singing. Andrea flexed her fingers and articulated her wrist tentatively, hissing through her teeth.

Dwalin fell back, his muscled frame relaxing. “That’s enough for today,” he said. “Get Oin to wrap that wrist for you.” He turned and strode back to the camp. He had barely broken a sweat. Andrea bent to pick up her sword, grimacing as her back protested the movement. With her sword held in her left hand, she trudged after Dwalin.

“I see you have finally joined us,” said Kili. He had a rabbit in one hand and a knife in the other. Four more rabbits lay at his feet, strung together by a piece of cord. “How go the lessons, Dwalin?”

“She is learning,” Dwalin replied, sitting heavily down on a stone. Andrea followed suit, plucking at her tunic to keep it from sticking to her sweaty skin.

“Dinner’s on its way,” Kili continued conversationally. “Uncle shot down a pheasant of some kind.” He punctuated the words with a nod to Thorin, sitting a few meters away, plucking said bird. “Bifur and Bofur are still out, they’ll be back soon.”

“Hn.” Dwalin took a rabbit from those by Kili’s feet. After a moment’s pause, he took another one and tossed it into Andrea’s lap. She grimaced, and grimaced harder when Dwalin held out a knife to her, hilt forward.

“Better to learn this skill now than later,” said Dwalin, glaring sternly.

Lip curling slightly, Andrea took the knife. Getting up from her stone seat, she squatted on her heels and laid the limp, furry body on the rock. Dwalin grunted approvingly.

“You start here,” he began, and showed Andrea step by step how to skin and gut the rabbit.

It was distasteful, but not too unpleasant– the same sort of distaste one might have for cleaning out the sink trap. Andrea only barely avoided spoiling the meat by breaking open the intestines; it was only Kili’s watchful eye that saved their future meal.

“When we left Rivendell,” Kili said conversationally. “You mentioned to the boy a story you told him, about a lost king.”

Andrea, having started on her second rabbit, didn’t look up. “I did.”

“Perhaps you would tell it to us?”

She spared a moment to glance up. “I’m afraid not. It was a story meant only for him, and one only meant to be told once.” She bent back over her rabbit, focusing on the angle of her knife.

Kili’s voice was full of innocent interest. “Oh? Do you have a special story for each of us, Andrea? Perhaps the craft of a storyteller is not words but prophecy.”

“Not prophecy.” Andrea paused, and pursed her lips. “One’s story can be a comfort, to encourage you. Or a warning.” She glanced up. Thorin had finished with the feathers and had moved on to cutting the bird open, his hands bloody. The tilt of his head indicated his listening ears.

Kili smiled slyly. “But you did not answer my question. Do we each have our own story?”

She looked at the young Dwarf. His eyes were bright, as always. “Some of you do,” she said after a moment of thought. “I think after a while I’ll remember a story for each of you.”

“Do I have one?”

“I don’t know yet,” Andrea replied. She studied the Dwarf prince, giving him a smile when he quirked a brow quizzically. Kili and Fili’s stories would always go together, she knew, their fates intertwined past death, until the world became new.

Kili lifted his knife, slightly bloodstained, and said triumphantly, “Ah! But you said some of us do have stories. Who are they? Fili? Dwalin? Uncle?”

“Bilbo has a story to hear. So does Thorin. But it isn’t time to tell them yet.”

“I don’t think I believe you when you say your wordcraft is not prophecy.” Kili flashed a wide, teasing grin. “Or perhaps it is the intuition of a woman.”

“Perhaps.”

oOo

They passed by a stream a couple days later. It was a blessing to find, and a relief to bathe in.

Andrea wrung the water from her hair, leaning over the narrow channel. Just around the bend, over a clump of rocks and boulders, came the sounds of those men of the Company. Idly, and with some amusement, Andrea wondered if Gandalf ever needed to bathe.

She decided not to dwell on the image.

Leaning a little further out, Andrea twisted water droplets from her hair. They fell and disturbed her reflection in the rippling waters. Throwing her hair over her shoulder, Andrea braced her hands on the stony bank. She frowned at her reflection, which frowned contortedly back at her. She couldn’t make out details, not like she might with a proper mirror, but there was no doubting the femininity of her face.

Was there some way to hide it? Some way of braiding her hair to disguise the curve of her face, the line of her jaw and chin. Perhaps some form of makeup, or camouflage, to hide her womanness.

Her breasts, at least, would be no trouble to hide. A few strips of cloth to bind them, loosely but securely, enough to breathe and enough to hide the curves beneath her loose clothing. Her old clothes would serve the purpose well enough.

“Will you stare at your reflection forever, woman?”

Andrea jolted. “Thorin!” She looked at the Dwarf Lord, standing by the pile of boulders. He wasn’t wearing his coat or armor, and he looked odd without them. Surprise faded to indignance. “I could have been naked,” Andrea said waspishly, getting to her feet. Her clothes stuck in places where her skin was still damp.

“No one remains vulnerable for long in the wild lands,” Thorin replied evenly. “I did not think you vain, however, though you seemed intent on your reflection.”

“I was only thinking.” Andrea picked her way along the bank of the stream. The stones crunched under her boots.

“You do that often.”

Andrea frowned at Thorin, trying to gauge the intent of his words. His expression, however, was unreadable.

She took a breath. “Dwarven women are hidden yes? To some cultures, they are little more than myth.”

Thorin’s brows furrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s correct.”

“Do they have some way of appearing more masculine? Some manner of cut or braid for their hair and beards?” She didn’t have a beard. For the first time in her life, she almost wanted one.

Realization dawned in Thorin’s eyes. Lips pursed, he nodded. “There are ways, yes. With no beard, you would seem only boyish.”

“That’ll have to be enough.”

Thorin took a breath, then let it out in a heavy sigh. “I do not know the braids they use, but Gloin should. His wife is among the best traders in the Blue Mountains, and she goes often into the lands of Men.”

“Then I’ll ask him.” Andrea made to walk past Thorin, to the campsite, but paused. “Why did you come looking for me?”

Thorin’s frown deepened. “You are in my Company. I would not risk the waters sweeping you away.”

Andrea laughed. “A joke, my lord Dwarf? Next I expect you to sing some song happier than the dirges you prefer.”

Thorin’s scowl did not decrease, but his eyes flashed with humor. “In time, perhaps.” He turned on his heel, the dirt and stone of the ground grinding under his heavy boot. “Come, dinner will not wait for us.”

Andrea followed behind, her laughter already forgotten. She looked up at the Misty Mountains, closer than before and more intimidating.

Times like these, when she remembered what lay ahead, Andrea wished she did not love the Durinsons so much. But the thought of seeing Kili grey and bloody, Fili faded and empty… it did not give her courage, but perhaps… determination.


End file.
